Silhouettes of Chaos
by Tanista2
Summary: Murdoc's come up with a foolproof plan to beat MacGyver once and for all, through his own dreams and nightmares. Only one thing stands between the assassin and his target: a certain plucky niece with dreams of her own. (Domestic Adventures 'verse)
1. Fusion

_This story is co-written by myself and my talented collaborator of the Second Chances AU series, deepandlovelydark._ _We hope you enjoy!_

 _Any questions about the Domestic Adventures AU, please see my profile page._

 _Dedicated to RDA with love and admiration from two fans, one old and one fairly new._

* * *

There's limits on the human body- the kind that stop people from climbing mountains or running marathons, the kind that can be broken through- and there's the real limits, the kind that can't be broken without impairment or injury or just sliding over in an ungainly, dead-to-the-world-heap.

Well, this isn't his first rodeo; and MacGyver just about has it down to a science, how far he can push himself. Right now he's uncomfortably close to bumping over the edge. But the mission's almost over, too. Just a little further, a little harder, to replace these control rods back into position before anything in this power plant can go critical. Of course, he's wearing a thick radiation suit for protection, but that just makes him heavier.

 _C'mon, c'mon. Think of Los Angeles going up in a mushroom cloud. Or think of Becky, at least._

And abruptly- maybe because he's so tired that he's just straight-up hallucinating, now- he can see his niece standing in front of him. Clear as day and twice as solid, holding her hand out to him. MacGyver grabs it with his free hand, lets her virtually drag him down the corridor. Her mere presence energises him amazingly. Gives him the presence of mind to finish the job.

"I didn't really do it," he says afterwards, when the grateful technicians and scientists are congratulating him on another crisis averted. "I mean…"

"Of course you did," Nikki tells him, guiding him out of the crowd.

Her steady voice reassures him, pulls him back to the everyday. She's right. That dream of Becky was just that, a dream. Nothing real.

Though it'll amuse her to hear the story, when he gets home. Later. After a very, very long nap.

"Pete'll drive you home. And I'd say I'll see you tomorrow, but you know, I hope I don't? Get some rest."

She's still smiling, as they drive away. Smiling as she turns to deal with the explanations and apologies and people-handlers, which he's more than glad to be rid of for today.

 _Bless you, Nikki. Glad we got each other's backs._

"Nicely done," Pete says sincerely, as he buckles his seat belt. "I told everyone they could count on you. Now..."

"Thanks," MacGyver says, pulling on his sunglasses. Jack Dalton likes to kid him about how he could probably do Phoenix debriefs in his sleep, the number of them he and Pete have done over the years. Maybe now's a good time to find out…

which is how he ends up murmuring agreement to take on yet another pet project for the Phoenix Board. Disentangling himself from that turns out to require a lot more shouting than he would normally consider either polite or reasonable.

But sheesh, a small and thoroughly exhausted part of him thinks; _if I'm snapping at Pete like this, I'm not in any shape to go out wrangling. Or anything else._

* * *

Becky yawns, glances at the clock. Four o'clock in the afternoon- that's an odd time for her to be napping.

Come to think of it, when's the last time she even had a nap? Not since early childhood, probably. Back then, her mom would put a stack of lullabies on the record player, or she'd be coaxed to sleep listening to her uncle telling soothing bedtime stories...

Right. Where is her favourite uncle, anyway-

she can't help a slight frown when she hears the key in the lock. Both at the coincidence and the raised voices.

"No is a complete sentence, Pete! Geez," MacGyver mutters, slamming the door shut. "What does he think I am, huh?"

"Hey," Becky says quickly, guiding her uncle to the sofa- he's looking around with bleary-eyed confusion. "Do you need anything?"

"About twenty hours of sleep."

"I'll shut the TV off, if you want."

"Nah, leave it on," MacGyver says, glancing fondly at the Western cowboys frolicking across the screen. "Don't worry about waking me up, I figure I could sleep through an earthquake at this point. Any important messages or anything?"

She thinks of Penny's singing (safely recorded on the answering machine for posterity), and Jack's latest plea for help (definite maybe, with a big question mark), and the broken faucet in the kitchen (there's a very annoying drip she can't figure out how to fix). "Nothing that can't wait twenty hours. Or forty."

"Great."

He looks awfully sweet when he falls asleep. So peaceful.

And after all: what's going to happen to him here?

Wouldn't hurt to get a bit of shut-eye herself, in fact, the way's she's yawning.


	2. Wild Montana skies

_A little rewrite of Serenity here, for fun. Enjoy!_

* * *

Becky turns round and round, admiring the view. Bright, sun-warmed prairie, soft winds. Very pastoral.

There's a crashing sound nearby; a shadowy figure charges through the brush, straight towards her. She yelps, barely skipping out of his way, one misstep sending her tumbling, hitting the bottom of the slope in a heap, the world going dark.

(If you pass out in a dream, do you just wake up?)

* * *

"Miss? You all right?" A tall man stands silhouetted against the azure, cloudless sky as she comes to.

"Wha...What happened?"

"Looks like you took quite a tumble. Need some help?"

"I'm fine, I think. I just need to-" She attempts to raise herself, but soon collapses with a groan.

"Hold on now. Let me see if anything's broken first." He kneels, gently touches her head. "Don't look like you have a concussion to me, but couldn't hurt to have the doctor in town check things out. Think you can stand?"

He carefully helps her up and she finally gets a good look at her rescuer.

It's her uncle, but the way he's playing up that pretend cowboy accent - and such a silly mustache!

Becky giggles, a little giddily. Then the world seems to tilt under her feet and she staggers. "Whoa..."

He quickly wraps an arm around her shoulders in support. "Easy, little lady. I got you. Let's get you outta here, what do you say?"

Puzzled but trusting, she nods.

He helps her into the wagon, then retrieves two objects on the ground, a hatbox and a valise. "Found these nearby. Yours, I take it?"

Wordlessly, she accepts them. He climbs in beside her and flicks the reins at the horses. The wagon lurches forward.

"Where am I?"

"A few miles outside Serenity."

"Where's that?"

"Montana Territory."

"What year is it?"

"1865." His brow furrows. "You sure you're all right, miss? Brain must've got a mite rattled during the fall."

"Maybe it did. Some dream, huh Unc?"

Another odd look. "Afraid you have me confused with someone else. I'm nobody's uncle, can't lay claim to any family. Just another drifter."

"Sorry. My mistake." Okay, that settles it; she's definitely having a nightmare. Any reality where her uncle doesn't know her has to be.

Well, that's not so bad, if she knows she's having one...all she has to do is wake up, right?

 _Wake up, Becky._

 _Wake up._

* * *

Becky stares at the hatbox at her feet as the wagon rolls along towards town.

There are other features of the environment that fill in slowly- the dusty, cream-coloured road in front of her, the homely stink of horse droppings and horse sweat, the jolting and creaking of the wagon- but it's the hatbox that attracts her attention first and foremost.

Because, for something that doesn't exist, it's an awfully vivid object. Usually she doesn't notice this kind of thing in dreams- floating around, or falling if it's a nightmare- but this seems surprisingly concrete. The faint but clearly stenciled flowers that decorate the rim, its faded, dust-caked pastel green colouring- all of it, as she stares at the thing, touches its tough reinforced outlines, only seems more real as she examines it.

This is one weird dream for her subconscious to be working up. Almost absurdly detailed. The hatbox's sharp edge keeps cutting into her legs.

Hmm. Maybe it's his dream, instead of hers. No way she'd imagine being in the Old West on her own, after all...maybe the best thing to do is just play along, at least until she can figure out what's going on.

"So, you live around here?" she ventures.

"Got a ranch nearby. On my way to get supplies in town when I came upon you. How about you?"

"Just looking for someplace to fit in. My family's dead, so I'm hoping for a fresh start. Second chances, and all that. The West seems as good a place as any to find it."

"Know what you mean. Saw the name on a map, sounded like the perfect place to settle down, after the war."

The Civil War, right. "You fought on the Union side?"

"Sure did. First under General Sherman, then 9th Calvary, in Texas. But that's all over now. I'm done with fightin', done with carrying a gun. Just want to live on my land in peace."

Yep. Definitely her uncle. No guns.

Thank god.

* * *

Finally, they arrive in Serenity. Looks like any other small, unassuming Western town from the movies. (Or is this just what she expects to see? After all, he's the one who's actually visited the real thing; maybe it looks different to him.)

"Here you are," her rescuer says, pulling the wagon to a halt outside the doctor's office. "I'm sure he'll check you out."

"Thank you for helping me," she replies as he helps her down. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome. Didn't catch your name earlier, though."

"It's Becky. Becky Grahme."

"Mine's MacGyver. Pleasure makin' your acquaintance, little lady." Brown eyes twinkle above the bushy mustache. "Sorry I can't help you further, but I've business to attend to." Nods and touches the brim of his hat, then drives the horses towards a gaily painted saloon.

Becky watches until he's out of sight, and even then finds herself lingering on the doctor's porch. It's not like she took much of a tumble, after all; nothing worse than the kind that her unc just brushes off and laughs at. Anyway, one look through the binds puts her off. The figure guzzling down whiskey probably wouldn't do her much good anyway.

Instead, she has a quick reccy about the place (it's not quite a one-horse town, but they don't have much besides the horses), then heads to the saloon. Mac's chatting with Jack and Penny, respectively a gambler and a dance-hall girl. Briefly she wonders what she would've been typecast as in her uncle's dream if she wasn't lucid. A schoolteacher, perhaps?

This is turning out to be an interesting dream.

Also potentially dangerous, she notes, observing the clear signs of a saloon punch-up from the not-too-distant-past. Better keep a close eye on her uncle as much as possible- if he doesn't believe they're family, well...

She'll just have to convince him they belong together anyway.

He greets her with a friendly nod. "Everything all right?"

"Fine as I'll ever be," Becky assures him. (Dream Unc would probably think she's bonkers for believing in planes and trains and motor cars.) "Suppose I'd better get on with hunting down a job."

"Oh," Penny says sympathetically. "You poor thing. Just like me, aren't you! Came out here on your last dollar, looking to start a new life?"

"Uh...uh-huh. Something like that." It's cute how their friends are looking after them, even in dreamland. Like Jack backing up MacGyver against those rotten troublemakers.

(How does she know that happened? She wasn't even here.)

"It's just too bad the saloon doesn't need anybody else right now- say," Penny says. "Jack, you only owned that ranch all of three days, you couldn't have hired anybody new for it. I'm sure the place could use a good hired girl, to give it a woman's touch."

"The lady has a point," Jack drawls. "And if I had a fixed abode, I'd certainly think twice about letting a gem like you slip through my fingers."

He winks at her. Becky shakes her head and he desists.

MacGyver considers. "Ranching's hard work. You'll find me a fair boss, but there's no denying you'd have an easier life here in town. Think you're up to it?"

"I think you'll find I can do anything if I put my mind to it. And I'm still looking for that second chance, if you'll have me."

A slow smile. "Reckon I will, then."

* * *

Not quite to Becky's surprise, Big Springs Ranch turns out to be a familiar place too. It's a cute little Canadian property, that her uncle had talked himself out of buying years back. When her family was still alive; she remembers him and her mother chatting about it one Thanksgiving, while she'd played with the Kodak snapshots. What it's doing in Montana...well, dream logic, again. MacGyver's never been that comfortable about the idea of owning land in real life.

Everybody's fled except for two hired men. Lee Sing and Billy Colton...yup, she knows them too, and has to pretend she doesn't. Both are as nice as she remembers, if a bit nervous.

They're an odd group to be sure, but not a bad combination for their circumstances. Together the four of them work hard to make the ranch- if not a success, then at least something feasible. Her unc pushes himself harder than any of them, but none of them are exactly lazing. Their daily routine includes waking up at dawn, for a start.

(She stays five extra minutes in bed anyway. For the culture shock.)

* * *

So near, yet so far away.

That's how it feels in the evenings, watching her uncle sitting on the opposite end of the hearth from her, whittling at a piece of wood and staring into the fire. Who still shows no sign of recognition, doesn't even recall they're related.

It's frustrating, not being able to get close enough to touch him, calm him when he cries out at night (nightmares about the war, no doubt). To cuddle, reassure herself as much as him that they're both loved, needed, cared for.

But she's only the hired girl and he's her boss. He's kind to her but in a distant fashion, nothing familiar. He seems content with his life. Happy, even.

Becky's not.

Involuntary eavesdropping on his dream makes her scared, even homesick in a strange sort of way.

If she can't help him, why is she even here?

* * *

"Some people," Becky mutters to herself; as has become her early morning mantra. "Some people, if they're having a dream about the old West, would make it be all about fun. And excitement. Gunfights, even. Or anything at all, besides the actual farming!"

But trust her uncle to be pedantic about every little detail.

Okay, so she gets enough time to sleep (very welcome, if at entirely the wrong times for her night-owl proclivities), and Sundays to do as she likes (which is considered a trifle scandalous, about town). That is, once she's got the milking done, and helped Lee cook the meals, and stitched up whoever's clothing has torn this week- since none of the boys can sew for anything. Except her uncle, of course, but he's perpetually running his tail off chasing after cows. Herds of cows. Galaxies of cows.

If she ever gets back to LA, she never, ever wants to see a cow again. Maybe not even hamburgers.

No wonder Uncle Mac's a vegetarian.

* * *

She's glad for the odd holiday in town, not least to talk and sew with Penny. (Six days out of seven she's the only girl for fifteen miles, and that's just strange). So that always cheers her up. That is, until the day that she sees a family walking together on the opposite side of the street. Not even doing anything special. Just talking to each other.

All of a sudden it's too much to handle. She gives up. Starts bawling, right in front of the saloon.

"Hey now. Hey now, little missy, you're too pretty to cry like that! Come on. What's wrong?"

She looks up; and sees the eyes of her uncle's oldest friend. Jack Dalton.

Maybe it's worth it, confiding in him.

"I miss- back east." West. "My whole family, they died in an accident, except my uncle, and he was trying to take care of me, but- but-"

"Couldn't swing it, huh?" Jack says, softly. "Sent you out here, lamb to the slaughter?"

"I missed them so much, and he was there for me, he really was, but- but-"

"But what?"

This is such nonsense, spilling her heart out to a con man in a dream.

(Maybe it's only because everything is so nonsensical right now, that she can finally bring herself to say it.)

"But he didn't understand!" Becky wails. "He grew up in a family, and everything went right for him, and not for me, and I'm just so jealous!"

Everything she's buried, all her tears and rage for Mom and Dad and Chris, all at once. What she never wanted to say, just how jealous she is of Mac. He had all that, and she lost it, and he's never really understood.

She cries her heart out on Jack Dalton's shoulder. Not quite right, but he's better than nothing.

"Feeling better now?" he asks, when she's past tears and into the inartistic, snotty, hiccuping stage (why, why have Mac's dreams got to be so realistic?)

"Not really. Just sort of...dead and cold and empty inside."

"It passes," Jack says, intently. "I've seen you, struggling with MacGyver to keep the ranch a going concern. You're a fighter. You won't quit."

"How'd you know?"

"I was in the same place as you, once."

Of course. Of course he was.

"Had to deal with it all by myself. Maybe it doesn't seem like it now, but this ranch...it's a good place for you to have ended up."

He cuddles her, a bit, and she feels better. Her uncle would probably think that's terribly forward-

"What are you doing with my hired girl, huh?"

"Gossiping," Jack says as they pull away to face a puzzled Mac. "Nothing to worry about."

"You sure about that? You say the word, Becky, and I'll give him the licking of his life."

Somehow, she's still got it in her to laugh. "No, don't do that! It's fine. We were just- gossiping."

"Didn't look much like gossip to me."

"Just had a little bout of homesickness, that's all. Mr. Dalton was kind enough to offer a shoulder to cry on. I'm feeling better now, really." Pats his arm in reassurance.

"Hmm. Guess I'll take your word for it." He looks unconvinced.

She smiles, seeing how serious he looks. Concerned. Protective, even.

(Of her? There may be a breakthrough yet.)

* * *

One day after feeding the chickens, Becky overhears Mac confronting the owner of the neighboring ranch. Who happens to be Pete, and _not_ a nice man in this dream, having designs on the ranch's water rights without room for compromise.

Mac's staring after Thornton and his men as they gallop away. "Everything okay?" she inquires.

He sighs. "I spent five years fighting people who were too stubborn to see reason when it was staring them right in the face. Didn't expect to come across such bullheadedness here."

"Maybe that just comes with being human. All we can do is make the most of what's around us and hope for the best."

He smiles down at her. "You're pretty smart, you know that?"

"I had a good teacher, growing up. My uncle."

"I'm sure you've made him proud." He ruffles her hair affectionately.

"Oh, I hope so," she murmurs once he's gone.

But she worries about what she's seen. Had he and the Phoenix director been arguing much in real life, for Pete to be the antagonist in this dream? It's a distressing thought.

Maybe she's here to resolve whatever has them at odds with each other.

* * *

Becky's in town the next day loading supplies for the ranch into the wagon when she spots Thornton and the Bozer brothers gallop down the street, making a beeline for the train station. She follows on foot at a distance, just in time to see a man dressed all in black stepping down off the afternoon train.

He surveys the gathering crowd, a faint smile on his face. It's Murdoc, clear as day.

Townsfolk murmur their distress. The most notorious gunslinger west of the Mississippi. Killed twelve men, not including Indians. Even Marshal Wyatt's scared of him.

This is not a good development. She instinctively knows why he's here. To take out Mac.

Murdoc's bad news. In dreams as well as reality.

* * *

Becky returns to the ranch in a hurry. Mac's not around but she warns Lee Sing and Billy, gets them to arm themselves before Murdoc comes calling.

In a misplaced sense of chivalry they shoo her away to hide in the kitchen, just before Murdoc arrives with Thornton and the Bozers.

The confrontation doesn't go well. Murdoc shoots and kills Billy Colton. That decent, sweet, smart young man, who ran away from slavery and educated himself, finding a second chance in Serenity.

(Thornton objects vociferously; he never wanted anyone killed, not really. Just scared off.)

Becky charges from her hiding place, brandishing a heavy frying pan.

"My dear Miss Grahme. Fancy meeting you here."

Murdoc's standing right in her way. She wants to wipe that damnable smug, superior smile off his face.

"How are you enjoying your uncle's fantasy land? Cowboys and Indians, very droll."

"How d'you know I'm really here?"

"One lucid dreamer can always spot another. There are ways of telling. I wonder, though, how are you getting along without any physical affection from him? I imagine it must be quite frustrating, being nearby every day without being able to cuddle." Scorn drips from his voice.

"I'm coping. It's only a dream, anyway. Did you really have to kill Billy?"

"Why not? As you said, it's only a dream. I'm coming for your uncle next, and I take pride in always completing my professional assignments. Even in dreams."

"We'll see about that. I'll fight you every step of the way. You'll never get to my uncle."

"You know, I'd love to see you try. I'm certain I'll find it very entertaining. But not now. Good day, Miss Grahme. Do tell MacGyver I stopped by."

Becky hurries towards Colton's limp body, just as Mac and Jack arrive on their horses.

A sinking feeling forms in the pit of her stomach as everyone takes in the tragedy.

Message received. Murdoc's here, lucid, bound and determined to do her uncle harm.

This is the real reason why she's here. She has to stop him. Somehow.

 _If you die in a dream, what happens to you in real life?_

"You wake up, Beck," she can hear her uncle saying. He'd know better than to worry.

Maybe she shouldn't either, but: two things. If anybody on the planet is capable of hacking somebody else's dreams just to assassinate them in a particularly convoluted and insane fashion, it'd be Murdoc.

And anyway: dream or no dream, no way is she letting her uncle die.

* * *

Serenity lives up to its name that afternoon, quiet and peaceful.

But that's only because everyone's hiding, fearing the impending confrontation. Mac, Jack and Pete versus Murdoc and the Bozer brothers.

Mac and the others insist Becky stay behind at the ranch, so as soon as they go she saddles her horse and follows. No one's gonna get between her and Murdoc if she can help it.

While the Bozers are neutralized by Dalton and Thornton, she makes her way to where Mac faces Murdoc, who has Penny in tow as a hostage.

Murdoc pushes Penny away, raises his gun, whips off a careless shot at Mac. Smiles coldly, raises it again for the real thing.

In desperation Becky grabs at a nearby abandoned horseshoe and tosses it (mentally thanking Mac for lessons back at the ranch- and in real life!), hoping to distract Murdoc. The horseshoe strikes him squarely on the back of the head and he crumples.

Penny scurries towards MacGyver, Jack and Pete joining her. Miraculously her uncle's not hurt; the Swiss knife took the bullet for him instead. Thank god.

They help Mac up. Everyone looks in surprise at Murdoc's unconscious form, then over at Becky.

"Thought I told you to stay at the ranch," Mac demands.

She shrugs. "You took me in, saved my life. Thought it was time I returned the favor."

He shakes his head. She wonders if he's going to fire her, then and there.

Instead he smiles. "I couldn't be prouder of you, if you were my own daughter."

"Really?"

His arms reach around her, pulling her close to him. "You bet. Hope you're not thinkin' of leaving anytime soon. Only I've gotten used to having you around."

"Guess I'll stay, then." She smiles, resting against him. Even in a dream it's comforting to hear his heartbeat again.

"Good. What do you say you hold onto this for me, in that case? For safekeeping." He hands her the knife, now with a bullet partially drilled into the wooden handle.

"Hey, what happened to Murdoc?" Penny inquires.

Just like that he's gone, with only the sound of galloping hoof beats to mark his disappearance: _Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk..._

* * *

The kitchen faucet downstairs is going _ka-thunk, ka-thunk_. Something wrong with the plumbing again; one of these days Unc needs to take apart the pipes under the sink...

Becky opens her eyes. She's back in her bedroom again, back in the 20th century.

Well, that's a relief.

She hears voices, hurries downstairs. Mac's still resting on the couch, Pete's holding a glass of water.

"Hi, guys. Everything okay?"

"Better now," Mac says, smiling. "Sorry for yelling at you earlier, Pete."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have piled so much work on you like that. I was out of line."

"Don't worry about it, Pete. We got no problems. Really. We're friends."

"Glad to hear it, Mac."

Becky sighs in relief. At least something good came out of that dream.

"But let me tell you guys, I think I just had the weirdest dream in my life. You were there, Pete, and Murdoc and Jack and Penny and even Billy. You were there too, Becky."

"Really?" she asks innocently.

"Yeah, even though we didn't seem to be related to each other." He shakes his head. "I'm talkin' weird. More vivid than anything I've ever had before. Like I was really there or something."

"Maybe you oughta stop watching all those Westerns for a while, Unc."

"Guess so. It was also kinda fun, now I think about it. But pretty strange, all the same."

Unc's right. What a weird dream. No way it could've possibly been real.

Becky feels something in her pocket, takes it out. It's the wooden Swiss knife. Complete with bullet hole.

 _But it was only a dream. Wasn't it?_

Clearly not, if this is any kind of evidence. Which brings up another disturbing thought. Was Murdoc real as well?

If he was, then so's the threat to her uncle.

She'll just have to be ready next time the assassin shows up. Because no way is she letting her uncle die, in dreams as well as reality. They're family. They look after each other. Simple as that.

Even- no, especially- in dreams.


	3. Interlude 1: Silent lucidity

A nightmare awakens Becky, a terrified cry echoing in the darkness of the apartment. But it isn't her nightmare.

Without thought, she leaves her bed and heads for her uncle's bedroom. The knob turns easily under her hand. It's an unspoken sign of her uncle's trust in her, to leave his door unlocked at night.

She's been doing this for several weeks now. Mac's been having a lot of odd dreams lately, ever since what she privately calls the Serenity Incident. The content tends to vary from the downright peculiar to reliving past adventures with nightmarish twists, all of it apparently calculated to pick his already tenuous hold on reality to pieces.

It's also been affecting her own sleep, which hasn't been good for her studies.

She's growing more and more convinced it's Murdoc's doing. Somehow.

In the moonlight (he prefers to keep the blinds open, morning person that he is) MacGyver tosses and turns restlessly under the covers, the nightmare keeping him trapped within his own mind. Moving slowly, Becky lifts the covers, sliding under them.

Even before she's fully settled, he turns and pulls her into his arms, an instinctive reaction to her presence. Heads just touching, they're nicely entwined. He utters a faint sigh of relief and relaxes. She doesn't say a word.

After a while Mac starts stirring in her arms again but it's only natural restlessness, not the return of any nightmares. Even in sleep he keeps saving the day, or at least trying to. She starts caressing him, her small hands lightly skimming along the broad shoulders, threading through his hair. Even in the daytime she can touch him with impunity if she wants to, but this is somehow more special, more intimate. It calms him, as well.

For much of the night she's content to hold him, offering whatever solace she can. But she knows this can't go on for much longer. Sooner or later the lack of deep, dreamless sleep is going to affect his performance. Lives may well be lost, including his own. Something has to be done.

She resolves to call Dr. Morgan at the Foundation's Psychology Department in the morning. Surely she and her colleagues know of techniques Becky could offer Mac in turn, to help clear his mind. Carrie Linden might even have some advice on the subject, since she did have that odd foreshadowing dream about Mac's death.

Yet even if there is some method that will help him, in a way she's going to miss these nights of silent lucidity. They've become almost as necessary to her as breathing.

She can't imagine not being able to provide her uncle at least some measure of peace. It's the least she can do for the years he's looked after her, the adjustments made to his life and career so she'd have a stable home. (He used to do a lot more globetrotting, though he never complains of the loss.)

With each soft stroke of her hand in his hair Becky's eyelids drop a little more. Until finally her consciousness gives up the fight and she falls asleep, safe in MacGyver's arms.


	4. Cleaning house

_Bonus points awarded to those who recognize the Easter eggs in this chapter. Enjoy!  
_

* * *

"I'm just confused now," Mac says sleepily, snuggling up close to her.

Becky burrows further down into the pile of blankets (a weekend at Pete's cabin gone sadly awry, after a very late season cold-snap. Though it's tolerable with a fire going, some good old-fashioned quilts and a warm uncle to keep her cosy). Sticks her hands in his jeans pockets, just for fun. "Confused how?"

"I mean, how mixed-up are my dreams going to be? It's getting to the point where just goin' on a Phoenix mission is getting to seem normal- I mean, at least I know what I'm doing there. Usually."

"Your last one was that weird, huh?"

She feels rather than sees him shrug. "I'm not even sure what was going on this time. There was this wolf, and I think Jack had a pig for some reason? Even Murdoc had this poisonous spider- no surprise there, I guess. And you were being followed around by a lynx. A tame one, I think."

"Maybe you were dreaming about a pet shop," Becky says, straight-faced.

"Or not," Mac says, very droll. "I admit, this is bothering me more than usual."

"Because of the Phoenix Foundation psych evaluation coming up?"

Mac looks a little put out, though she can tell it's at himself rather than her. "Now I wasn't gonna mention that."

"Because you wouldn't want to worry me unduly," Becky says, tickling him to get the frown off his face. He yelps, but can't help smiling.

She spends a few moments just comforting him, without words. Her hands are gentle and practiced, from long experience. He sighs in happy content.

"You know, I had a word with the psychological research department last week. For some tips about how to handle bad dreams."

He tilts his head and looks at her a little sideways. "Those jokers? I mean, I've seen psychics in action and I still think what they do is a bit of a stretch."

"I know, but...maybe it'll help. They told me a couple of things I could try, if you'd trust me to."

"Of course I'd trust you," Mac says promptly. "Always."

"Then...just relax. Sleep."

"At this hour?" he murmurs. But their pancake brunch had quite the soporific effect, snow's falling thick and fast outside, and his planned day of fishing sure won't be happening.

Besides, Becky's here, soothing him to sleep. Gently whispering something into his ear.

Her presence keeps him calm, even when an old DXS instinct kicks in, warning him that someone's getting too close. Breaking down the barriers that should protect his innermost secrets- but he doesn't need to keep any secrets from Becky. And she's the one who's doing it.

* * *

Mac looks around. No snowy cabin now, but an apartment, his old loft. Full to the brim with bric-a-brac and furniture and whatnot.

"Becky? Becky, where are you?"

"Over here," Becky says, emerging from behind a sofa. "Geez, Unc, this is a mess. I thought you'd be tidier, somehow."

"I always made a point of cleaning up whenever my favourite niece was going to be in town- and since you moved in, it's become a regular habit. Not quite what I'd be like, left to my own devices...although I never was this bad, honest." It's worse than that time Jack had returned all his stuff in one heap after stealing it.

"Uh-huh," Becky says. "So the idea I heard at Phoenix was an adaptation of this English technique for clearing the mind. A mind palace, to keep your thoughts in order. I thought that maybe sorting out your nightmares would help you get them under control."

"So...okay, I think I get it. Label a thing, name it and you make it less scary. What's this even supposed to be?" Mac asks, picking up a comedically long and pointy stake.

"That one's mine," Becky says, promptly putting it away in her sewing bag. (He can't help wondering why she's blushing, a little.) "Um- trouble is, most of this stuff is just ordinary. I'd hoped that telling you to imagine a smaller apartment with less stuff in it would make things easier to find..."

"Sort of," Mac says, lifting a coffee pot out of the mess. "This never made it to the loft, it was from your Grandma Ellen's cafe in Minnesota. Definitely doesn't belong here." Something about it is starting to unsettle him, the more he holds it. Fear and hunger and distress. If only-

Becky grabs it from him, sets it down out of sight. The feeling ebbs away again.

"So that's one," she says. "You've gone awfully pale."

"I don't think you can faint in a dream." He finds himself hugging her close, almost holding on to her for support.

"'s okay," Becky promises him. "It's okay. I'm here."

"Not in all of them. I think those might be the scariest...this is gonna be a mess to sort through."

"Then we'd better get started," she says, in brisk tones.

"Where is all this even coming from? I mean, sheesh, I'm busy enough during the day, let alone at night!"

"You're imaginative! And you have a high-stakes job, and me to worry about. You've got hockey and stuff to blow off steam, but all the rest of the stress has to work itself out somewhere..."

* * *

"Now that," MacGyver says, after they've identified everything dream-related, "is a lot of somewhere."

Becky eyes the tottering pile of junk with amusement. "Sure is. So look, you try to resolve what's going on with all these, and I'll stay here to keep you grounded. Pull you back to reality when you're done, 'kay?"

"Sounds good. Why," he says in exasperation, pulling out a far too familiar peaked cap. "Why is this here? Geez Jack, can't I even have my dreams to myself without you showing up uninvited?"

Uncertain what to do, he just shoves the cap on. Becky giggles, as he vanishes into somebody else's dream-

or nightmare, more like. A small, bare room just big enough for a dresser and a cot. Ten year old Jack is curled up on a thin pillow, chewing bubble gum and poring over diagrams of aircraft engines.

"I think this is yours," he says, passing over the cap.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks!"

(He's had a nice full breakfast of pancakes- where's this tired, beige-brown hunger coming from?)

"It's like this Sunday mornings. Uncle Nelson always comes up with some excuse or other to send me to bed the night before without supper. Wish I could get used to it."

"Jack, you're having a bad dream. Go and wake up already."

"I know that, but if I wake up it'll be just the same, only I won't even have any bacon-flavoured bubble gum. Want a piece?"

Politely, he takes the pack. Jack's imagination is very precise on this; it tastes alarmingly realistic.

"It gets better," he says, chewing. "Honestly, it does."

"I know," Jack says calmly. "At least, I have to think so, or I'd go way loopy- but it's nice to hear somebody else say it."

He can't just leave his best friend like this. _Becky?_

 _I might have an idea. See if you can move on to your next dream._

Tossing the gum on the bed, with one last look he walks through the doorway. Into something that is not a door nor a room nor even a jar-

"Vampires don't have reflections," his double says. (Pale, bite marks on the left side of his neck, eyes glowing faintly in the dusk.) "What are you doing in my mirror?"

"Wish I knew." He's hungrier now than ever- no, he isn't. That is not him.

"It's not me either," his vampire-self says. "I'm not going to feed on Becky. I'm just not."

"Have you asked her? How are you going to keep her safe during the apocalypse, if you're too weak to move?" (How does he know the end of the world happened? At least they seem to be together.)

"He's right." Becky's voice- he looks for her, but she's standing just out of sight. "I found some iron pills, I have some orange juice and crackers- just the same stuff I'd get together for a regular blood donation. Look at it this way, Unc, if I was sick you'd do whatever it took to make sure I was okay. Let me do the same."

"And I can see myself in the mirror," the vampire notes dryly. "Maybe science hasn't completely gone out the window after all..."

MacGyver smiles, turns away as his reflection does. Senses a warm, tasty feeling as he goes, blissful consummation, quiet ecstasy-

and he's lying underneath Becky, in a room he doesn't recognise at all. Nice sofa though.

Not the fresh young niece who's waiting for him Out There- somehow she's his age. Older, even, with laugh lines on her face and hair fading to silver. A faded scar that he's never seen before.

"I don't recognise this." Touching it gently.

"You wouldn't, that happened after you died," Becky says. "Oh, Unc- trust you to show up when you're needed. Best birthday present ever."

"I'm not really here!"

"So?" she asks, nuzzling his ear tenderly. "Matty's planning a surprise party for me, even though everybody in the DXS keeps saying that you can't do surprise parties for spies- but Gant totters out of retirement every year to show up. So I'll just keep pretending for as long as he's there to watch. And my friends will all be there, and I'll have a good time...but this is what I really wanted," she whispers. "God, I've missed you so much."

Holds him with an abundance of love. Wrapping him in bewildering, crazy glory, that leaves him delightfully ecstatic-

and when he comes to himself again, it's weightless and floaty. Like a proper dream at last...

"No, it wasn't!"

"Yes, it is!"

He's watching himself and Jack quarreling over a half-completed painting, the Pacific during sunrise. His dream-self's holding a palette, frowning at the colour of the sky.

"I think it's more this colour," he says helpfully, dipping a brush into a pot of swirled silvery-blue.

The Sensible Bookworm comes in, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of fungal scones, fresh out of the oven. She grins. "Your Reflection's got a better memory than you do, Unc."

The Innocent Spy grabs his Unrepentant Smuggler with a protective hand. "Jack, where'd you get this batch of honey? I'd swear that's never my Reflection."

"Some other kind of doppelganger?" the Smuggler asks, with clear amusement.

And at the word doppelganger, he's off and away, defending a magical kingdom. With a mile of kite string in his hands and a terrified lack of comprehension how he's meant to do this, until he glances around and sees his other self. Calmly guiding a paper box-kite through the sky.

Defending this realm against dragons. Ah.

He follows his doppelganger's lead, guiding the kite hither and thro, until the dragons have fled in hissing anger, and he turns to see an exhausted Becky drop to the ground (too much magic). He'd like to help- but it's maintaining his form here that's draining her, she'll be fine when he goes-

(And anyway, his Reflection will be there to look after her.)

A shift, and MacGyver finds himself in a sizeable room with high, carved walls and ceiling, lush tapestries and ornate mirrors alternating between tall arching windows. Becky standing slightly above him, wearing a silver crown. She taps him on each shoulder with a sword, picks up a gold circlet and places it on his head. So much love in her eyes as she proclaims him her Knight-Consort to a cheering crowd-

(He'd do anything for his princess. Anything. Even help rule if that's what she wants.)

Then he's running across a field towards a large stone circle, carrying an injured Becky. His twin brother's providing rear cover for them and the rest of his team (guy with glasses and a knack for languages, a lady physicist with short blond hair and an inscrutable dark-skinned man with a gold mark on his forehead also firing back with his staff) so they can dial the gate and get back to New Earth safely-

Too much madness, too much change at once, even for his quick and flexible mind, and how is he ever going to get home again?

Craving simplicity, he plunges through membranes and infinite dreamstuff, to the plainest version of himself he can find- all alone, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if he's going mad. Obsessing over Murdoc by himself.

No Becky to reassure him, no Nikki dropping in every other day. Jack chasing off on the other side of the world, Pete going blind. This version of himself wouldn't understand all the weirdness he's just been through, is perilously close to breaking just because of a little bit of assassin-related hilarity.

Only one thing to say. "Of course you're right. Murdoc's still alive."

Cold comfort; but his other self smiles in his sleep, with sure certainty. All that can be done for him.

It's an achingly lonely thought, and he wants to return home. To his safe beloved Becky, and quiet friendly good life, in what has got to count as his best of all possible worlds-

 _Becky, help! Where are you?_

She catches him with a hug.

"It's okay, Unc. You know I'm here, you know who I am. And I know who you are, we've got each other. Almost there, now. You can finish this."

They linger, suspended, until his breathing's calmed down, until he's cleared through all the debris and sorted out what's his own mind and what's just wild dreams and fantasies. Until he knows exactly where everything's supposed to be, his mental space tidied up at last.

"Got it. I think, at least...for now."

"Great," she says, pulling him by the hand down a corridor. "Nearly done, Unc. Just one more thing to do..."

Opening a door, she passes him a blue willow plate with a hot bacon sandwich on it. Young Jack's asleep, but stirring as MacGyver places it on the dresser.

"And now we go home. Or wake up, anyway."

"How?"

"Trust me," she says, and snaps her fingers.

* * *

Pete's cabin is plain and humdrum and ordinary looking (takes after its owner in that respect) and a sight for sore eyes. The perfect place to spend his recovery: because gee, he's gonna need one after that.

"I'll have to stop making fun of the psych division. At least, the people who work on weird dreams. How much of that did you see?"

"Less than you'd think, actually. I had to stay really grounded, keep focused on our everyday lives to pull you back here- hang on," Becky says, wandering over to the stove. "There's definitely bacon grease in this pan. And...yup. There isn't any in the cooler."

"That- Becky, that's nuts. You probably ate it yourself."

"That much bacon, after the pancakes you make? I don't think I could."

MacGyver huffs. "Well, if you're going to say that you just left half a pound of bacon in a dream, for goodness sake-"

Somebody's knocking on the door. He goes and gets it.

"Pretty crummy weather out there," Jack Dalton says cheerfully, getting snow all over the floor like a shaggy dog. "Pete mentioned that you two were gonna be having some quality time up here, and since I was flying by anyway, I thought, hey, Mac's vegetarian, he'll probably have forgotten to bring any bacon along for his favourite niece, why don't I come and drop some off for you? Wasn't sure if you'd prefer hickory-smoked or maple-flavoured, so I just brought both."

"Funny thing about that," Becky says, eyes dancing. "I did actually pack some, but then as soon as I'd cooked it he wanted to give it all away to this hungry kid. Of course I let him."

"Typical Mac," Jack says, shaking his head. "You two are such a soft-hearted pair. Perfect match for each other, huh?"

"Oh, I think so," MacGyver agrees.

The dreams are fading fast (good thing too, he'd probably go bananas if he had all that stuff in his head all the time). But now that Becky's sorted them out; he has a feeling he'll be having a nice, calm, dreamless sleep tonight.

Funny thing. After he's been looking after her for so long, she's looking after him in a way he seriously never could have expected. Bringing him back to earth.

Domestic adventures, indeed.

He's so glad she's here to share them.


	5. Interlude 2: Blinded me with science

Dr. Elizabeth Morgan is a formidable woman.

Motherly in appearance yet alert of eye, customarily in an African print dress, tortoiseshell glasses and rows of beaded hair as dark as her skin tone. In her fifties, built to withstand an earthquake. Head of the Phoenix Foundation's Psychology Department for fifteen years, she fears no man and prides herself on never soft-pedaling anything for anybody.

(Just ask the Board of Directors during the yearly departmental budget reviews.)

That doesn't stop her from being a consummate and understanding therapist when needed. And willing to seek out new avenues of research whenever they present themselves. The Foundation's generous funding allows her department to be on the very cutting edge of psychological inquiry.

So when young Becky Grahme approaches her seeking advice on how to ease her uncle's troubled dreams she promptly directs her to Dr. Sarah Beatty and the rest of the investigatory team. Ordinarily, Beatty specializes in hypnosis and deprogramming brainwashed agents (her most recent success was the Dakra case). But her interest in dreams is something of a secret vice, equally shared by Morgan.

(Both scientists are familiar with Becky's mother's work, not that they've admitted as much to her yet. Dr. Allison Grahme was known as a remarkable educator and solid yet innovative researcher. The tragic loss of a colleague of her caliber is still keenly felt in academic circles.)

The teenager's curiosity and desire to look after her uncle's well-being has sparked a renewed interest in lucid and shared dreaming. Hardly considered mainstream areas of research, Morgan and Beatty remain convinced of their worth as windows into the complexity of the human psyche.

So Project Serendip is created.

( _A mental ecosystem, fueled by serendipity._ Despite a rigorous scientific background Dr. Beatty can't help but wax poetic sometimes when talking about the workings of the human brain.)

It's already known that each section of the brain is responsible for certain actions, both conscious and unconscious, yet exactly how everything works together to create a uniquely individual, infinitely adaptable mind remains something of a mystery. The firing of random neurons during the sleep cycle and how they're processed and translated as dreams is even more so.

And lucid, shared dreaming? How that's possible is the biggest mystery of all.

Morgan and Beatty waste no time in recruiting Becky as a member of the team (sessions on weekdays, after-school activities permitting). Through light hypnosis she recounts a successful use of the Mind Palace technique in soothing MacGyver's mental state, as well as her experiences in his Serenity dream. The use of her physical presence to directly block or calm his other unwelcome nightmares is also of interest.

The other scientists on the project are ecstatic. Just think of the papers they can deliver at future conferences once enough data on her methods is collected. Potential game-changer. Might even have military or espionage applications someday. Won't that interest the Board of Directors.

But for now Morgan decides to keep the project tightly under wraps. Not even a whisper of a rumor in the hallways of the Phoenix Foundation.

And Becky?

She knows the virtue of discretion, thanks to past involvement in assisting other covert areas of research around the building (even if only fetching and carrying). She understands what's at stake.

Besides, this is something she's keenly interested in pursuing herself. Her own unique talent, making use of what's around her with a dash of her own imagination. Just like her troubleshooter uncle, though applied in a completely different fashion.

(Becky Grahme, dreamweaver extraordinaire. She rather likes the sound of that.)

The science (as well as the poetry) of it dazzles her. She can't wait to find out what happens next.


	6. Grounded

"Are you having nightmares again?" Becky asks her uncle, concern filling her voice.

"Nothing worth speaking of," he returns, cheerfully enough. Pats the sofa besides him. "C'mon. I've been looking forward to this marathon."

"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," Becky reads from _TV Guide_. "Sounds silly."

"Yup," he says, affectionately. "I mean, sometimes you like a serious, thoughtful story, and then again sometimes you just want something light-hearted, you know? The nice thing about Westerns is that they cater to all sorts."

He's smiling, and she sort of hates to interrupt his happiness; but she knows from experience that this is the only time she feels right bothering him like this. If he's already busy and anxious about something else, it's hard bringing herself to interfere. So now or never.

At the first commercial break, though. No use interrupting the programme.

(The guy playing the eldest brother looks familiar, though for the life of her she can't figure out who he resembles. At least he's cute, and the show's admittedly fun to watch.)

"Honestly, though," she says, fifteen minutes later. "You look tired, and I know you're sleeping funny- is anything bothering you?"

"Oh...not exactly."

"C'mon, stop hedging. What is it?"

He sighs. "Jack's lost his plane. And not because he was swapping out for another clunker, like he usually does."

"Oh my goodness," she says softly. "That- that's awful! What happened?"

"Just the usual. Landed himself in hot water, tried to get me to bail him out of it, but I wasn't around this time. Guess it all went pear-shaped for him- I don't know how he'll ever get another, it's not exactly like I can recommend him for Phoenix in good conscience. He's too erratic."

"But you're feeling guilty about it."

"A bit," he admits. "And maybe I've been having a few bad dreams as a result."

"Then let me help. Like I did last time."

"No," MacGyver says, quickly. "You're impressionable, Becky. No reason for you to worry yourself, they'll go away in time."

And there the matter rests, because the show comes back on, and he doesn't reopen the subject.

Still. That gives her an idea how to set to work. If her uncle's feeling bad because of what's happened to Jack, maybe helping out their friend will clear the matter up...she resolves to do a little private investigating of her own, this weekend.

(Following in his footsteps, in a way.)

* * *

That Jack's given up his cheap apartment doesn't surprise her a bit; he always had moved around quite a lot. That nobody at the airport knows where he's gone is a lot more worrying. If it was her, she'd be hanging around the place night and day, just to stay in the game. Seems wrong that he isn't.

Not there, not working as a cab driver, not anything. She resorts to drastic measures and asks Nikki to have a quick look.

"Didn't MacGyver tell you? I'm sure he must know- Jack's shacked up with Penny Parker."

"Penny? That...that can't be right." She can't imagine the two of them getting on at all; as far as she knows, their only interactions have been trading cheerfully barbed insults at Phoenix parties.

"I didn't think so either," Nikki says, with a shrug. "But he's moved in with her. I'd say something, but he can't be worse than her last boyfriend, right?"

Becky almost chokes. "Uh- you mean, because that turned out to be Murdoc in disguise?"

"Just what I said," Nikki says, and winks.

Spies have such a weird sense of humour.

* * *

"Oh, Becky! Nice to see you!"

Penny's very glad she's here (of course), but very hectic (that's good, isn't it?).

"Oh yes it is, but I just can't stay- but Jack's here, if you want a chat or a smoothie or anything. He's really wonderful! I don't know how I ever did without him."

"Sure you do," Jack says. "It was messy."

"Oh, I suppose you're right. Now don't forget, no ice cream!"

She kisses him on the cheek before departing, leaving the room (as usual when Penny's been around) with the sensation of a loud, enthusiastic party that's ended rather abruptly. Sad, but also kind of a relief.

"Thank god," Jack mutters, throwing himself across a furry purple sofa. Becky finds herself an egg chair and clambers into it cautiously. "She's exhausting, isn't she? I regret every time I ever made fun of Mac for not being able to cope with her. Or I would, if- actually, what are you doing here?"

"Came to see if you were okay." Very earnestly. "Unc's worried about you. I am too."

"Mac's not that worried. Ducked out on me the one time I really needed him, and didn't even apologise for it. Where was he Saturday before last, huh?"

"...Jack, that was my choir's matinee concert," Becky hears herself saying. The one they'd been practicing for all year, a real epic performance. "He was helping out with the backstage stuff, and watching me sing."

She can see what happened now. He'd been really proud of her, had bought tickets for half the Phoenix Foundation. Probably one for Jack too, which the pilot had evidently forgotten about.

"Look," Jack says unhappily. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Don't tell Mac I said that, please."

He's looking more than a little scared now, and it's making her uneasy. "Of course I won't."

"Don't tell Penny, either? She takes performances seriously- I'm trying to keep on her good side right now."

"I won't. Um- is everything okay?"

"Sure it is," he says, promptly and reassuringly. "Just staying here while I sort out my next move. Everything's good."

"You've got this eye twitch, you know that?"

He groans. "I can lie to Penny just fine. Guess you're different...it's probably Mac's fault. Again. No, I know that wasn't fair," he says quickly, before she can interrupt.

"Look, I've got somewhere to sleep and a place to leave my stuff. And honestly," Jack says, looking very quizzical. "I don't understand at all how she did get on without me. I mean, maybe my filing system wasn't ever that neat, but at least I put stuff away in drawers. You know where I found her latest contract? Underneath the sofa, that's where..."

Ten minutes of frantic, rapid-fire patter later, he finally starts winding down. Maybe the sales talk hasn't convinced her (it sure hasn't convinced him) but Jack looks much better for having said it.

"And it wasn't like I had too many options. I mean, without strings attached. Not without-" he waves vaguely in the air, then suddenly flushes brick-red. "Never mind. Penny's a good kid, you know? All she asks is that I stick to her stupid diet and help sort out the house, and honestly, I'd do that anyway. This place is driving me up the walls as it is."

She goes for the easy remark, the least awkward one. "If Penny's a kid, what does that make me?"

"Not the same, Beck," Jack says with relief. "You're- I dunno. Old soul in a young body, always were. I figure that's why you and Mac got on so well. Chris was a nice kid but he was just a kid, while you- sorry. I keep saying all the wrong things today, don't I?"

"Try calming down. C'mon, Jack, we've known each other for a long time. You don't have to pretend around me."

He stares at her. "Okay, fine. I'm grounded. I'm hungry all the time but feel guilty if I so much as buy a cone from the ice cream truck, and the one guy who could have stopped this thinks I deserve what I got, just because I didn't go see a stupid choir performance! I mean, I know it was yours and I was honestly going to see it, but schedules can't always be decided when running cargo. If Mac had just shown up for an hour that morning and fixed my plane, I could have made the delivery and paid everything off and it would have been fine. Hell. If I'd told him I was doing something exciting and my life was in danger, he'd have come along like a shot, but this was just too boring for him to bother showing up."

"I'd have told him to go," Becky protests.

"Maybe I should have called you instead," Jack says tiredly. "Look. Mac's gonna kill me if he knows I grouched at you like this, okay? Don't let on, please. Only I feel a lot better for having said all this...god."

She wrangles herself out of the chair and goes to sit by Jack. "You don't look it, though."

"Oh, I wouldn't, been having the worst nightmares lately. If it wasn't for those, I think I'd be coping a lot better. Can't even remember what they're about, but I feel rotten whenever I wake up."

"Maybe I can help with that, anyway. I've been practicing these Phoenix...um, techniques. Psychic stuff. Only if you don't mind me seein' potentially embarrassing stuff about you, though."

He shrugs. "Sure. Let a teenager loose in my head, why not? I don't think my life can get any worse at this point."

The sheer unhappiness in his tone makes her mind up, at least to try. It might not work; he's not her uncle. They don't share a special bond or anything.

But they've known each other a long time, and she really wants to help. Maybe that'll be enough.

"How about right now, then? I know middle of the day's a weird time, but maybe warm milk or something like that will help."

"There isn't any, unless you count the no-fat soy extract," Jack says dryly. "Which, if you ask me, doesn't. Pretty good time for a siesta, though- do you need recording equipment, anything weird like that?"

"No. Just sleep."

He dozes off in remarkably short order, while she holds his hand and wonders what she's getting himself into. It's one thing for her to help her happy uncle with his odd bad dreams, but Jack's going through something that's worth having nightmares about. Maybe she can't do this.

Maybe I can, Becky tells herself.

And tries.

* * *

The shock almost throws her out of the dream. She's not watching the dream, she isn't anchoring; she's being.

He's being.

He's being Jack Dalton, small and exhausted and terribly worn, nursing a nearly empty cup of coffee in an airport cafe. Murdoc sits across the table, smiling in that way he does.

(That insufferably smug, superior smile she remembers from Serenity, and still wants to smack off his face. Thank god the assassin doesn't know she's here, Becky realises; Jack's instinctively shielding her, protecting her from that cold, crazy gaze. She looks through his eyes, and feels a revulsion that might be hers or his or both.)

"I only have to wait," Murdoc's saying, calm and cheerful. "You're no MacGyver, you don't have his frustratingly pure innocence to protect you. You know the art of compromise. You won't keep this stubbornness up forever."

"You're only using me to get to him," Jack says.

"Give the man a medal! You're perfectly right, I am. You, personally, don't matter to anybody. But that wouldn't matter..." Murdoc whips away a curtain, revealing a shiny new plane on the tarmac. "If you had a beauty like this. Come, now. Don't you want it?"

He feels desire catch in his throat. Swallows it down.

"Think about it. If you betray MacGyver in a dream, who's to know or care?"

"I would," Jack insists, but faltering.

(The nerve of Murdoc. Dangling temptation in front of a guy who's been emotionally weakened. Time to intervene.)

"I would too," Becky says, stepping out from the shadows; both men look at her in confusion. "Jack, don't. I dunno what he's doing, but trust me, this is real."

"You're right. I'm a smart enough gambler not to play, if I don't know what the stakes are," Jack says in sudden confidence. "Huh. And here I was thinking I was just going crazy off my own bat."

"You," Murdoc says, in an excess of annoyance, "are proving to be a very irritating adversary, Miss Grahme. The time I've wasted on this chucklehead, trying to persuade him that this was all in his head...all right, we'll do this for real now. You want a plane, Jack Dalton? I'll get you one. Name the specifications, ask for gold-plated faucets if you want, you know HIT's good for it."

"Don't do it, Jack," Becky insists urgently.

"What's the catch?" the pilot asks in a weak voice, desperation etched across his face.

"You," Murdoc says, "have a way of getting into MacGyver's head. Literally. I want right of passage."

"Huh?"

"Bacon," Becky says, in sudden clarity.

But that'd been her doing, creating a back door out of her uncle's dreamscape when his friend had needed help- she needs to think about all this, later.

(This is a lot bigger than she'd ever realised. What has she opened up by messing around in dreams like this?)

Jack coughs. "I really don't see what my bacon obsession has to do with anything."

"I wish I did," Murdoc says, studying her very intently. "What do you know about this that I don't?"

"As though I'd tell you!"

"You might. Imagine if I'm in your dreams, like I've been in his. Haunting you every night, until you give me what I want. It might even be more fun like this, with conscious victims-"

Bingo. Now she has it.

Becky smiles sweetly at him. "You've already said too much, you know that? I'm still not sure how you got into Serenity in the first place, but now apparently you can't get back in Mac's head by yourself. So you need Jack, and that means he's already protected. And if there is anything, but anything, that's true about my uncle, he'll always protect the people he loves- which is us. You won't be able to touch us next time."

She can taste the patterns already. How to shelter herself and Jack from Murdoc behind whatever it is that her uncle has, teasing out the same instinctive protections that Jack's just given her, reinforcing it with certain shielding techniques learned from the sessions...

"You're an untutored novice," Murdoc says (she refrains from correcting him). "And you're guessing. Perhaps I'll cut my losses, and just trap his best friend and niece in this dream. So that you'll never wake up."

"Ooh," Jack says with interest. "That's basically the same as immortality, isn't it? Could be worse."

Murdoc glares at him. Spins up boundaries a mile long and wide and high, leaving them huddled alone on cold concrete.

"Now, then. You're never getting out of this."

"How about somebody else getting in?" Becky asks. Snaps her fingers.

Her harried uncle steps out of nowhere, grabs them up in a hug. Jack squeaks in a rather undignified fashion, as if the breath's been squeezed out of him.

"Get out of here," he growls at Murdoc. "Leave us alone."

Murdoc tries, she'll give him credit for that. Darkness, storm, cracking earthquake and stormy seas all round them- but not touching them. Her uncle's got them safe.

"You bored yet?" Jack quips, after.

"Come to think of it. Yes."

The assassin goes; Jack and Becky tumble off a purple sofa.

"Geez louise," he mutters, rubbing his head. "What the heck was that, Beck?"

"Just another of Murdoc's attempts to get at my uncle, I think. Jack- you saved him."

"Aw, not really," Jack says, though not a little pleased. "Just cos I said no to Murdoc in a dream."

"It mattered, though. Every dream you had, when he was offering you everything you wanted...say," she says, suddenly. "It'd be awfully coincidental timing, for everything in your life to go south at the same time like this. Maybe Murdoc had a hand in this for real."

"How so?"

"Maybe," Becky says, grinning, "we can convince Phoenix that your contract and the plane going out at just the wrong time were the result of Murdoc's shenanigans. They're usually pretty good about compensating people for damages caused by someone going after one of their agents."

"I get it," Jack says suddenly. "Convince Phoenix that I only lost my plane because of a crazy attempt to kill off Mac, or whatever he was planning?"

"Exactly."

"But...Becky, I'm not sure that you can prove that. In fact, I'm almost sure he didn't have anything to do with it."

"You leave that to me. I mean, there's still the real world to think about. And I know my unc's a lot safer if you're happy and flying. He's been having these guilty nightmares ever since you lost the plane, I hate to think of him going out into the field again while he's feeling like this."

That's confusing cause and effect, she knows. Her unc's been dreaming badly because it needed a week's worth of fearful searching, for him to find and save them from Murdoc's clutches.

(The timing of it puzzles her, however. Had he been looking for them _before_ she ever thought to confront Jack and enter his dream? It's all backwards; she'll never really understand dream logic despite Dr. Beatty's instruction.)

Still, though. Jack really does need his plane back.

"C'mon. I'll fix it."

"You're gonna have to do some serious spin to con Phoenix into that," Jack observes. "Can't wait to see how you'll sell it."

* * *

Pete harrumphs and frowns and generally doesn't believe a word of their wild tale, but he agrees to pony up.

"Only because," he says to her privately, "I don't need MacGyver's time wasted by Dalton dragging him off on another wild-goose chase, trying to dig up another fortune. That's the only reason I'm doing this, understand?"

"Sure, Pete. Nothing to do with you having a good heart at all, I understand." Smiles innocently.

"And make sure he buys a new one. That way he won't be constantly asking for it to be repaired, either."

"Dee-lighted," Jack says, apparently unaware that he wasn't supposed to be listening. "I owe you guys. Say, want the first flight? I'd be only too happy to take you up."

Pete scowls.

* * *

"How are you?" she asks her uncle the next day.

"Good, good. Slept like a top."

"Great. I don't think you're going to have any more nightmares for a while."

"What makes you say that?"

"Call it a hunch," Becky says with a smile. "By the way, Penny called. Asked if you want to go out to dinner with her and Jack tonight."

"I guess I can't avoid him forever...hmm."

"It'll be okay," she promises. Jack can tell him the news, he'll enjoy that. "She hasn't sounded that happy about a date, maybe ever."

"Even if it isn't, I ought to- Becky, date? Seriously?"

"Oh, sure. It turns out that he and Penny are getting along pretty well these days. He's running transport for her current movie production, they're living together and everything."

"Jack Dalton going steady," Mac murmurs. "That's ridiculous. He's a carefree bachelor."

"Feeling a little left out?"

"...no, Becky. I am not."

"You could call Nikki and make it a double-date."

"Now that is a good idea," Mac says, brightening suddenly. "Have somebody sensible to talk to, while those two are doing- I dunno. Couple things. Thanks for the suggestion."

He picks up the phone and dials. She resists the impulse to splutter at him.

Geez. One of these days, those two will have to get the picture...


	7. Table for five

"Barbecue," Nikki proposes.

"I'd prefer something else," Mac says. "How about a vegan restaurant?"

"If we're going out, I'd like it to be a place with actual food," Jack says. "Can we settle for Chinese?"

"Chinese is awfully fattening, though," Penny argues. "Sushi?"

Becky rolls her eyes. They do this every time, and every time they end up going out for pizza, because the adults can't agree on anything else; it gets awfully boring after a while.

Well, not this time. "Unc, you remember that great all-day breakfast place we went to a while back? How does that sound to everyone?"

"Worth a try," Nikki agrees.

"Sausage and extra bacon? Works for me." Jack, naturally.

"And I can have an egg-white omelette." Penny chimes in.

Mac's the only one who looks dubious; Becky directs a despairing look in his direction, and he stays quiet.

Sheesh, she can't imagine how Pete does this all day. Secret agent wrangling is worse than herding cats.

* * *

It doesn't get any better once they're at the restaurant, either.

"…c'mon, guys. We're in public!" Mac implores.

Jack disentangles himself from Penny's enthusiastic caresses, with some difficulty and a lot of reluctance. "Ah, c'mon, Mac. Gotta live it up while you're young."

"Young? You're my age."

"A full year younger, and don't you forget it," Jack says, smirking. "Besides. You're only as old as you think you are."

"Must think you're about fifteen, then," Mac mutters. Becky chuckles.

"You know, we don't mind if you do the same thing," Penny offers graciously. "I mean, everybody here knows that you and Nikki adore one another."

There is a distinctly long and pregnant pause, during which Becky privately blesses the actress for just saying the obvious already. Mac and Nikki carefully avoid looking in the other's direction.

"Penny Parker," Nikki says eventually, between sips of her coffee. "I'm not sure if you need to be reminded that we both work at Phoenix, but we do."

"And I think that's awfully sweet. Being colleagues and everything."

"Which means that affirming or denying a relationship could constitute a safety hazard," Nikki says. "Does that make sense, Penny? If word got around that we're an item- which I'm not confirming or denying, by the way- but if rumours started that we were, then somebody might threaten one of us to scare the other. Try to kidnap me to worry Mac, for instance."

Jack starts piling breakfast meat into a sandwich, shaking his head. "Like anybody would go to that trouble when Becky's right there- I mean, sorry Becky, but you're the most obvious target in a situation like that."

Mac winces. "Jack, don't you start. Bad enough I worry about that happening to her as it is."

"Gosh," Becky says suddenly, "you'd almost think I'd be safer if Unc was dating somebody else, wouldn't you? Now that's food for thought."

Her uncle's turned a shade of crimson that matches the red pepper omelette he's ordered. "How did we even start- look, does anybody mind if we talk about something else?"

"Ooh! I have a magic trick!" Penny squeals. "Who wants to see a magic trick?"

"I do!" Jack hollers. Nearby patrons glare at him; he waves at them cheerfully in apology.

"Why not," MacGyver mutters, with relief. "How's it work?"

"Like this," Penny says, grabbing a napkin. "First, we need four pieces of paper- no, wait, three pieces of paper."

She contrives to tear the napkin into confetti. Jack clicks his tongue and rips another apart, more neatly this time.

"Now, MacGyver, you close your eyes and think of something."

"Anything in particular?" Mac asks, taking a neat bite of eggs with his eyes shut.

"No- but you just think it real hard. And now, everybody else, take a piece of paper. Think real hard about MacGyver, and what you need to say to him, and you write that down. And don't show each other the papers, just give them to me when you're done."

"Why aren't you participating?" Jack asks.

"Because I'm conducting the mystical energies," Penny says dramatically. "Did everybody write something down?"

Becky chuckles, wondering how this is going to turn out. There is one thing that she definitely needs to discuss at the next possible opportunity. She writes on the slip and hands it back to Penny.

"Okay, MacGyver, you can open your eyes again."

"The word was kumquat," Mac says. "Did anybody come up with that?"

There's a mildly mocking tone in his voice. Her skeptical uncle knows perfectly well they didn't, of course.

"Nope," Penny says, reading them. "But have a look."

Three slips of napkin, which all have only one word:

 _Dreams._

"That's weird," Jack says. "That is so weird."

"Now how did you two come up with that?" Nikki demands. "Or has Murdoc been on your tails as well?"

"I'm not really getting this," MacGyver says. "What's the trick?"

"That everyone thinks they need to talk to you about your dreams," Penny explains. "Don't you see? The mystical energies are so clear!"

"…no. Honestly, I don't."

"Nevertheless," Nikki observes. "It sounds like we do all need to talk- but not in public like this."

"Are you really magic?" Jack asks Penny, amazement in his voice.

She giggles.

"Becky. Becky, beloved niece of mine, do I know any sane people at all?"

"Tell you the truth Unc, I don't think so."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that…"

* * *

After the meal, the four of them decamp to the apartment. Penny, her mischief accomplished, waves them goodbye to attend a late rehearsal.

"Don't forget to lock up when you get home!" she cries to Jack.

"Sure thing," Jack says, snogging her with outrageous zeal.

"Okay," Mac says once the front door closes behind her and they're all comfortably settled in the living room. He leans forward on the couch, resting his hands on his knees. "What is it about my dreams that's so darn important to you guys? What's going on?"

The other three trade glances.

"All right," Nikki starts. "From my point of view, Murdoc's abandoned his usual modus operandi, in favour of an entirely new behavioural pattern that I don't like at all. He's been talking to psychic experts, researching in libraries across the globe- and despite his eccentricities, we're talking somebody who is usually looking for very concrete, practical results. I don't think he'd be bothering with any of this, if he didn't have an idea of how to weaponise it."

She's in charge of the Murdoc file at Phoenix; Pete had insisted that somebody besides MacGyver handle it, for his own sanity- and there wasn't any agent he'd trusted more than her.

Funny how she's never really thought about the implications of that before, Becky muses. Placing his life in her hands…

"What's he working on?" MacGyver asks.

"Dreaming. Lucid dreaming, with results I can't even guess at- does he want to use it to kill you, trap you, interrogate you? I don't know. And I have no idea how to protect you from it," Nikki says, intent now. "Believe me, I don't like this any more than you do."

"It's not a matter of liking," Mac says, almost indifferent. "But from where I'm sitting, if he wants to waste his time chasing up fantasies instead of hurting real people, why shouldn't we let him?"

Nikki grimaces. "That is what exactly what Pete said, and that's where the matter's been left. Until this morning, at least. When he said that Phoenix had just had to buy a plane on account of this supposed nonsense, and perhaps I'd better look into it further."

"Which is where I come in," Jack picks up. "Mac, uh- I've been having some pretty weird nightmares for the last couple weeks. You know I'm hypersensitive about stuff like that, ever since the Kimbala thing. And honestly, I'm a little fuzzy on the details- but basically, Murdoc was trying to get inside my head, to do something to yours, only I don't know what. Anyway, Becky can fill you in."

"Becky? What have you got to do with this?"

She takes a breath. "Well…I've been talking to Phoenix's psych division. The dream specialists, Beatty and Morgan. They're the ones who gave me the Mind Palace technique to share with you."

"The ones who made sure I was deprogrammed after the Dakra case?" Nikki asks. "I hadn't heard they were studying lucid dreaming, though."

"It's just something I've been helping them with from time to time. You know, like I've done for other projects around the Foundation. It's interesting."

"Left hand doesn't know what the right's doing, huh?" Jack says with a chuckle. "That's bureaucracy for you. Sorry," he offers, when the Phoenix agents both glare at him.

"Point is," Becky says. "Unc, you know you've been having some pretty weird dreams lately."

"Sure. Stress-caused nightmares, that's all there is to it. Nice, sensible explanation for everything."

There's an edge in his voice, the born scientist resisting. Becky sighs. "You're always so much more understanding in the dreams. I think it's because you recognise there's a threat, then. If only you could remember them a bit better-"

"Hold on, now. Let me see if I get this straight. You three are trying to tell me that this lucid dreaming stuff can actually kill people, and Murdoc's trying to do just that."

Becky shrugs. "More or less."

A scowl crosses his face. "Well, I woke up from my last nightmare and I wasn't dead. How the heck am I even supposed to protect myself from a dream assassination in the first place?"

"Bring you into the picture with whatever your niece is doing, for a start," Nikki says, her voice calm and certain. "All right, Becky, do you have any reason to think that I'm right? Is Murdoc after him?"

Becky swallows. She doesn't like the intensely skeptical look her uncle's giving her, but she's always told him the truth. Why stop now? "Yes. And I've saved you a couple times now Unc, but- yes. It was kinda just sheer luck, some of it. I still don't really know how I'm doing it."

"I am feeling ridiculously like I'm being gaslighted, here," MacGyver says. "The three of you come up with this stupid, incomprehensible conspiracy theory about a guy who's supposed to be dead about six times over, saying he's haunting my dreams-" He abruptly stands up. "You know what, I've had about all that I can take of this lunacy for now. I'm done."

"But, Unc-"

"I know you mean well, Beck, but this is just nuts. Go on and talk about whatever nonsense you want to, I'll be back when you guys are more sensible."

He doesn't exactly slam the door on the way out, but the whump is somewhat louder than it needs to be.

"I guess he's got a point," Jack observes. "Mac's a real skeptic about anything spooky, remember? What he wants is something more concrete to convince him there's a real threat. Getting it out in the open like this was just gonna make him mad."

Becky sighs, slumps further on the couch. "I was afraid of this. So you think we made a mistake, telling him?"

"That's why I wasn't going to talk to him, until I had more to go on," Nikki says. "But at least we're all on the same page now. If anyone can convince him, it's you. Thank you for telling me about the psych division, I'll get on that tomorrow."

"The project's top secret, I'm not sure you even have the clearance for it."

"I'll ask Pete to get me read in. What's its name?"

"Project Serendip." God, she hopes Beatty and Morgan will forgive her for being indiscreet. But Uncle Mac's safety takes top priority, and she trusts Nikki to have his back at all times. "Jack, not a word of this to anyone, you hear me?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Do you have any reason to think you're still in danger from Murdoc?" Nikki asks him.

"Nah, I don't think so. He was trying to bribe me with a plane," he says with contentment in his voice, "and I have one on the way now, so I'm fine."

"How about you, Becky? If he can't get to MacGyver, you're likely to be next on the list."

"I'm preparing for that. Best I can, anyway. But honestly…I don't know what more we can do. Nobody really understands what we're dealing with. Or how to keep him safe. I've only managed so far on sheer dumb luck, like I said earlier."

"And when that luck runs out?" Jack's voice is unexpectedly soft and sympathetic.

"If Murdoc succeeds, at the very least Unc may well lose his sanity. At the most- " Becky swallows. "He'd die in the dream and never wake up. And the same might happen to me."

Jack blurts out a single harsh four-letter word, cutting through the ensuing fearful silence.

Nikki's hand gently settles on her shoulder. "Never mind that for now. How do we keep _you_ safe?"

"Honestly, I'm not really sure. No amount of armed agents could protect me from something bad happening in my dreams. It's all up to me, and the thought makes me sick to my stomach."

"Probably not a good idea to sleep on it, then," Jack quips. That earns him a glare from the women, but also a rueful laugh.

But it's the haunted look in Nikki's eyes at her words, so frustrated and anxious, that really worries Becky when she gets ready for bed later that night. Horror at not being able to help. Having to trust to her own good sense.

The kind of look her uncle might have, if he believed in any of this. (Even after Mac returned he still refused point-blank to talk about it.)

How on earth is she going to convince him he's in danger, from someone who can kill him within his own mind?


	8. A dark and stormy night

Three weeks later, storms rolling in from the Pacific, a seemingly endless series of slow, gray waves across Los Angeles. The bright headlights of passing cars cut through the falling rain, trailing clouds of spray behind them as they laboriously make their way down the sodden streets.

A perfect night for a fire, MacGyver thinks. Western on the TV, hot chocolate, warm blankets and a niece to cuddle with on the couch. But Becky's not home yet, and Nikki just _had_ to pull him out of the apartment and into this miserable weather on urgent business.

Her Ford Taurus pulls into the parking lot of the Phoenix Foundation's R&D lab complex in Long Beach. The engine is turned off- followed by headlights and windshield wipers- then the doors open, discharging Nikki from the driver's seat and Mac from the passenger side. They dash through the downpour towards one of the buildings.

A uniformed security guard stationed behind a desk grins as they shake off the excess rain once inside. "Evening, Ms. Carpenter, Mr. MacGyver. Fine weather for ducks, eh?"

"Hello, Nigel," Nikki says as they sign in. "Can you call Dr. Morgan and tell her we're here?"

"Will do. You're already cleared for entrance." He nods towards the double doors at the other end of the lobby, an electronic box to one side keeping them secure from unauthorized personnel. "Just pass on through with your keycards."

"Thanks."

Mac follows Nikki through the doors and down a long corridor, the beige walls interspersed by red doors here and there. They stop in front of one with two signs posted nearby: _Psychological Research Division: Sleep Labs_ and _Quiet! Testing in progress._

A second swipe of keycards and they're inside.

The Sleep Labs consist of rooms with hospital beds and electronic equipment paired with observation posts connected by two-way mirrors, along with a small break room and storage for computer banks. A sturdy, dark-skinned woman in an African print dress silently approaches from one side. "Nikki. MacGyver. Thank you both for coming so quickly."

"As quick as we could, considering the weather," Nikki says ruefully while Mac takes a halfhearted swipe at his still-damp hair. "How is she?"

"No change, sorry to say."

"Not that it isn't great to see you, Elizabeth," Mac says, "but would you mind telling me why Nikki had to drag me all the way across town? Don't remember signing up for any sleep research."

Dr. Morgan smiles faintly, gesturing to a nearby door. "All will be explained soon enough, if you'll please follow me. And keep your voices low."

Inside a small group of scientists and technicians surround a bed. They pull away, revealing a petite unconscious figure.

It's Becky.

A startled gasp passes MacGyver's lips, echoing through the room. "What the heck-"

"Mac, please," Nikki whispers urgently.

In his haste he pushes past Nikki and Morgan, stopping at the bed to stare down at his niece. Her head's largely concealed beneath a plexiglass helmet, from which a multitude of wires rise like the locks of an electronic Medusa into the banks of machinery around her.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs. "What have you done?"

Morgan appears by his side, gently leading him to a far corner. "There's nothing to worry about," she soothes. "Your niece is perfectly fine, just unresponsive."

"Is Becky in a coma, or what?" He can't seem to keep the agitation out of his voice.

"No, more like simply asleep."

"You don't sound too sure."

"I'm not," Morgan admits. "This is new territory for us. She's never been this far under for this long before. Her session was supposed to end three hours ago, and she hasn't woken up yet, not by any of the usual methods."

"But she's all right, isn't she?"

Dr. Beatty joins them, gesturing to a screen registering a slow, steady rhythm of electronic blips. "Her heartbeat's steady. Nothing to worry about physically."

"And mentally?" Nikki asks quietly.

"That...we're not really sure about. As far as we can tell on our brainwave monitors everything's fine, she's just suspended halfway, on the edge between REM and the final waking stage."

"For the past _three hours_? Is that even possible?"

"Could be she's waiting for something to happen before waking up," Morgan muses. "Or some malfunction with the equipment that's keeping her under. That's why we called you in, Mac."

He tears his gaze away from Becky. She's so quiet, so still. So pale. The slow rise and fall of her chest the only bodily sign she's still alive. "Who, me?"

"You know your niece best. Any ideas you can offer would be welcome."

"I'm not sure what to tell you. Don't think there's much I can do here, really."

"Checking and recalibrating the equipment will take a while," Beatty remarks. "Why don't you keep her company for now?"

"Yeah, I guess I can do that." He swallows. "I owe you guys an apology, Nikki. Here I thought you were just fooling with my head."

"I'm afraid not. Your niece has been assisting with top-secret research in lucid dreaming for a while now; she's their main subject, in fact. I've only been involved for the past couple weeks, as Pete's liaison."

"Welcome to Project Serendip, MacGyver," Morgan says dryly. "You've just been read in."

* * *

While Nikki and the others shuffle out of the room Mac settles into a nearby chair, only marginally comfortable by anyone's standards. An hour passes.

And another. He wonders if Becky's ever felt this anxious, every time she has to wait for him in the hospital.

Half an hour later he can't take any more. He's filled with the overwhelming urge to _do something._

(MacGyver's never been a patient man, anyway. Becky can attest to that.)

He reaches over, takes her hand in his-

his consciousness is suddenly yanked out of his body, into her mind-

pulled along through thoughts, feelings, sensory impressions, each flickering by far too quickly for him to examine closely-

finally coming to a halt upon seeing a familiar face-

his own, smiling back at him.

"What took you so long?"

* * *

A tumbler of yellow liquid in his hand.

"Drink that."

"What the heck-"

"Your questions can wait two seconds, okay? Take a sip, already."

He does. Freshly-squeezed orange juice. Delicious.

(How can he taste that? He's not really here. Or is he?)

"Feel better?"

"Yeah...I guess. Where am I?"

"Take a look around."

He does. A bedroom fit for a princess, in a beautiful palace. Light and airy with high whitewashed stone walls. Arching windows overlooking a blue ocean stretching out to a distant horizon. Comfortable furniture. Stacks of books everywhere, a guitar leaning casually against a couch.

And then there's himself- or a version of himself, anyway.

Stretched out on that couch, an amused little smirk on his face. Hair slightly longer, curling around his neck in soft waves. Flowing white silk shirt (top two buttons undone, revealing chest hair) and brown suede trousers, tucked into boots of the same soft leather in a darker shade. Everything about him more...touchable. (Romantic? Sensual?)

"You're me."

"Yeah. Maybe slightly more idealized; this _is_ Becky's imagination, after all."

"What are you doing here? Are you trapped?"

Warm smile, easy laugh. Eyes twinkle with good humor. "Nope."

"You're not surprised to see me, are you."

"Course not. Her defenses are getting better all the time; no one else can get to this point. She let you in for a reason."

"But where am I?"

"Haven't figured it out yet? This is Becky's innermost self. Part of her soul, manner of speaking."

"This is unbelievable," Mac mutters. Everything seems so real- he can still taste the orange juice in his mouth, for crying out loud. Yet every bit of his rational mind's insisting the opposite. "Am I hallucinating? Going nuts?"

"Nope. Remember that Western dream a while back? Pretty vivid, huh?"

"C'mon, that was right after Pete and I argued. Pure exhaustion and stress, that's all it was."

"Or the Mind Palace sorting-"

"Same reason. Nothing otherworldly about that."

"Then how about that near-death experience on the ship with Harry? Didn't feel like a hallucination then, did it?"

Mac sighs. He's going nuts, to be arguing with _himself_ of all things. And losing. "Okay, okay! I give up. Why am I here?"

"Only way she could get your full attention. Got some things to tell you."

"Why isn't Becky here telling me in person, then?"

The doppelganger shrugs. "Guess she thought it'd be more credible if it came from yourself. Have a seat, gonna take a while to explain." He gestures to a nearby chair.

Mac turns it around to straddle. "So talk."

"You know that knack Becky has, stopping bad dreams just by being around?"

"Yeah. No idea how she's doing it. Good thing she can, though."

"That's only the beginning. For a while now she's been able to enter others' dreams, too. With a little help from the psych folks here at Phoenix, but it's mostly her own doing."

"You mean like what Jack was saying? All that stuff about Murdoc in his head and wanting to get into mine and Becky was there to stop him?"

"Remember those dreams you had around then? Searching for Becky and Jack without knowing why? That was her. And her abilities are increasing."

"How come?"

"You know already, Nikki told you. Murdoc. He was in Serenity for real. Good thing Becky intervened, or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Wait a minute. Becky's become a lucid dreamer, because _Murdoc's_ one? She's trying to protect me?"

"Yep."

Every time Murdoc's name is mentioned lately he gets a sick feeling in his stomach and a chill down his spine. He isn't really in his body, so why on earth is he feeling that way _now?_

He's absolutely going nuts. That must be it.

His doppelganger looks at him sympathetically. It's weird to see his own facial expressions, his own mannerisms, mirrored in another person. "Sounds like those stories Becky reads, doesn't it?" he says quietly. "An assassin who can permanently kill someone within their own dreams. A heroine who can protect his intended targets."

"But how?"

"Maybe Allison had something to do with it. She was working on dream research, at the university. Didn't she joke sometimes, about bringing work home with her?"

"What are you implying?" Mac squints at the doppelganger. "Wait a minute- you know too much, to be merely a part of Becky's imagination. My sister's work was top secret, funded by the Defense Department; I've been able to learn that much since the car crash, but everything else about it is still classified. What are you?"

The doppelganger chuckles, but it's a sound that Mac finds somewhat unnerving. "Pretty perceptive. Call me a hybrid- part your sister's creation, part your niece's imagination, for her protection and yours. Know that connection you two have, since the first time you laid eyes on her? That's what I embody. You're linked to each other through Parabolan space."

"What kind of space?"

"Parabola. Land of multiple realities, Carl Jung's collective unconscious." He waves his hand. "Never mind. I'm jumping too far ahead, anyway; that's the next stage of Becky's training. Just know that the connection you have is real, and always will be, even after this current threat is over. And it's worth protecting."

"Aw, man." Mac's head is starting to spin. Too much weirdness. "This is way beyond me. And I won't remember any of this when I wake up, as usual."

"As for that- I've been working on something that'll hopefully keep that from happening." The doppelganger picks up and tunes the guitar, plays a sequence of notes, repeats it.

"Sounds familiar."

"Should be. It's the intro to your latest composition; the connection's a two-way street. Nice lively piece, by the way." Plays the sequence again. "But from now on it'll help you remember this. You believe me?"

Mac shrugs. "What choice do I have? If it were anybody else telling me this I'd start laughing in their face. If not punch them in the nose for messing with my head big time."

"Hey, don't laugh at what you don't know. Remember telling Carrie Linden that?" The doppelganger winks, then turns serious. "You have to depend on Becky, to keep you safe from Murdoc. And she has to depend on you, to support her through this. You're two halves of a whole. Complimentary."

"Left brain and right brain." Mac smiles, recalling a certain conversation on the way north to a beach house and two weeks of witness protection. "Yeah, I get it. All I have to do is be there for her, then? Give her encouragement, that sort of thing?"

The doppelganger nods, grins. "Exactly. Just as you've always done. Piece of cake."

"Anything else I should know? I kinda have the feeling I need to get outta here soon."

"That's it. She's close to waking, now we've had our chat. Don't worry, you'll do fine. Good to meet you in person, so to speak."

"Yeah, you too. I guess." Mac stands, stretches and looks around, nervously. "So, how do I get out of here?"

"Oh, that's easy," says the doppelganger, and snaps his fingers.

* * *

Becky finally opens her eyes. Her brainwaves perk up.

"Waking stage fully achieved," one of the scientists reports with relief. "She's back."

"MacGyver? It's over. Come on. Wake up now."

"Wha..?" He shakes himself, realizing he fell asleep in the chair. Looks up at Nikki, then over at Beatty holding a stethoscope. "How is she, doc?"

"Just fine. Vital signs are normal."

He rises, stretches and smiles down at his niece, handing over her glasses from the bedside table. She's not so pale, now. "Hey, sleeping beauty. How're you feeling?"

"Uncle Mac?" Becky's voice is raspy. "What're you doing here?"

"Well, they needed me to wake you with a kiss. You know, in case the usual ways didn't work." He winks.

She struggles to sit. "Easy, now," he murmurs, placing an arm around her shoulders. "Let me help you. You doing okay? Need anything?"

"Water would be good." A technician brings a cup. "Seriously, Unc," she asks after a long drink. "How is it you're here, in the lab? Are you part of the project now?"

"You could say that."

"I thought you don't believe in lucid dreaming."

"I believe in _you_ more, Becky. So I guess I'll hang around, if only to make sure you don't go sleepwalking or anything."

"You don't know how dangerous this is for me. If anything happens-"

He hushes her with a kiss to her forehead, still dotted with red marks from the electrodes. "Hey, let's not worry about that right now. They're only dreams, right? Can't hurt you."

"If only that were true," she whispers. "I'm scared, Unc."

"Don't know what you have to be afraid of, but I'm sure you can handle anything that comes your way. I'm here if you need me, sweetheart. No matter what. Count on it."

She leans against him with a faint sigh as his arms close around her. "Thanks, Unc. Means a lot to hear you say that."

"My pleasure." He holds her close for a little while, until Morgan and the other scientists enter for debriefing.

Presently Nikki comes by, and they head for the break room. "Buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," she replies with a smile. "How was your nap? Any interesting dreams?"

"Can't remember much, though I do have this vision of you in a bikini."

She glances around surreptitiously. "MacGyver! And here I thought we were supposed to be discreet!"

"Kidding." She swats him and he chuckles.

He feels good. He's able to tease his secret girlfriend, Becky's safe for now, all's well with the world.

Now if he can just do something about this darn persistent musical phrase that keeps repeating over and over in his head...


	9. Office hours

_Two weeks earlier:_

Peter Thornton's a master of the Great Game, particularly as it relates to bureaucracy.

Has to be, after all his years behind a desk. First as an Army Colonel (Special Forces) during the Vietnam War, then seconded to the State Department in charge of an elite courier group. Then the DXS after an honorable discharge, running their West Coast operations, and finally Director of Operations at the Phoenix Foundation.

Along the way he's viewed files for every kind of military maneuver, covert operation and research project known to man. There's very little that surprises him these days.

Except for the folder that's currently open front and center on his desk, a narrow, bright red band running along the edges, the Foundation's coding for urgent matters.

 _Project Serendip_

 _Top Secret. Eyes Only._

"An investigation into the possibilities of lucid dreaming, its applications and possible consequences for daily life," he quotes from the abstract. "This hardly seems worthy of your skillset. How on earth did you hear about it?"

Nikki Carpenter, one of his best operatives, leans back in her chair. Every movement calm and precise, a level of self-control he secretly envies. "Never mind that, Pete. I need to be read in on this one. Can you arrange it so I have the necessary clearance?"

"Is this related to the latest intel you've received on Murdoc's activities? You did hint he was working on something pretty esoteric."

"Mmm-hmm. According to sources he's been doing intensive research into lucid dreaming, probably with the intent to apply it as yet another trap for MacGyver. Serendip's the only project of ours doing any serious inquiry on that topic right now; maybe this will finally give us the means to anticipate his next move."

Good lord, Pete thinks. The man just can't go through with a straightforward assassination attempt anymore; they're becoming more and more like elaborate courting rituals to get MacGyver's attention.

He inwardly blanches at the thought. The image that has suddenly popped into his head requires a ton of mental bleach to dismiss.

He skims through the papers, stops at the personnel roster. His eyes widen. "What on earth is Becky doing in this project?"

"Is she really? I'm not surprised. Dr. Morgan's familiar with her, probably recruited her as a research assistant. You know Becky's reputation around the Foundation, so helpful and discreet."

"Don't play innocent with me. You already knew she was involved; that's why you're petitioning for access. You want to keep an eye on her, for MacGyver's sake."

Nikki gives a reluctant shrug. "I suppose that's part of the reason, sure. She's a good kid, I like her."

"And if Murdoc really is involved you'll do your best to protect her."

"Of course."

It's heartwarming how attached the agent's become to Mac's niece over the years. Almost like a surrogate aunt.

(There have been sporadic rumors over the same period of time about a possible romantic relationship between her and his friend, but he refrains from speculating any further in an official capacity. Love is nice and all, but office-based affairs are very unprofessional. Not to mention their adverse affect on productivity.)

"Very well. I'll inform Dr. Morgan you're acting as my liaison. Be sure to keep me in the loop. But answer me one thing first?"

"What is it?"

"Is MacGyver aware of Becky's participation?"

"Right now, Pete, I rather think he prefers to remain blissfully ignorant..."

* * *

 _One month later:_

The file folder takes center stage on Pete's desk, its typewritten pages watermarked with the seal of the U.S. Defense Department.

A considerable coup to get his hands on it in the first place, all things considered. Another sign of his bureaucratic mastery.

(Not that he doesn't enjoy his job most times, but there's a certain prestigious cachet to being Director of Operations for the Phoenix Foundation. A man _has_ to take some pride in his work, after all.)

 _Project Cosmogone_

 _Top Secret. Eyes Only. Ultra Level Clearance Required._

"Is that it, Pete?"

"Uh-huh. You wouldn't believe the number of personal favors I had to call in to get the complete, unredacted version from the DoD archives. We only have access for a couple days at best, so make the most of it."

"I really appreciate this. I knew Allison had been doing some contracted government work even before the car crash, but not anything on this level. Who knew dream research could have military implications?"

"Well it was the Cold War, Mac. If anything had the slightest chance of being weaponized the Pentagon was all over it."

MacGyver casually hooks a leg over the corner of the desk, one leg swinging as he flips through pages. "Hey, listen to this: 'Cosmogone is the light of remembered suns in Parabola, reflecting pleasing fancies and unkind truths alike.' Allie was the sensible one but she sure did like to wax poetic in her writings. Becky keeps insisting I'm the better storyteller in the family, though."

"Parabola? What's that?"

"Some kind of hypothetical noetic realm, according to this. 'The collective unconscious, home of common archetypes and multiple possibilities, accessible only through lucid dreaming.' Combination of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, I guess."

"And that's what your sister was researching for the government?"

"Apparently so. Not that she talked about her work much with me. Psychology's not my thing, too subjective. Engineering and chemistry, now they produce concrete results I can understand. But this..." Mac shakes his head. "Way beyond me. Right up there with Starkoss, know what I mean?"

"So why join Project Serendip in the first place?"

"Because whatever Murdoc's up to involves this lucid dreaming stuff. For years I've been playing defense to that lunatic and I can't do that anymore. If he's taking this so seriously, then I wanna be on top of it for a change."

There's a troubled look in his eyes that's familiar to Pete. Far too many sleepless nights wasted on that wretched assassin, worrying about when or how he'll strike next.

"Makes sense to me. But what made you think of your sister's work, and why it's relevant now to Serendip?"

An odd expression on Mac's face, like he's trying to remember something that's just out of reach. "Dunno, Pete. Call it a hunch."

Which is all the explanation Pete gets. But he's trusted his friend's hunches before, so he doesn't press.

(Part of being master of the Great Game's bureaucratic machine, after all, is knowing when to step back and allow those under you to do what they do best. That's how things get done.)

"How's Becky doing in the project, by the way?"

"Hmm? Oh fine, fine. Hard worker, still manages to get her homework done." A wry, one-sided smile. "Funny thing. Over the years I've tried not to get Becky mixed up in my professional life, and she keeps getting involved anyway. To be honest, I think she loves the Game as much as I do."

Somehow that doesn't surprise him. "Like uncle like niece, eh?"

"Yeah." Mac hops off the desk, still holding onto the folder. "Thanks. This really comes in handy. I'll drop it off when we're done looking through it tomorrow." He's halfway out the door, then turns to look back. "By the way- pizza's being delivered to the lab around six or so, Becky's idea. You're welcome to join us for dinner."

"Delivered at Phoenix expense, no doubt." Pete chuckles. "All right, I'll allow it so long as I get a slice."

"We'll save you _two_ slices. Working behind a desk builds up an appetite, after all. Pushing those papers, lugging around memos, lifting that heavy coffee cup..."

"MacGyver!"

"See ya, Pete. Don't wear yourself out in the meantime."

The pad of legal paper hits the door half a second after he shuts it.


	10. Her worst nightmare

Nikki levers herself out of her office chair, more cautiously than normal. The anti-dreaming drug she's taking is a chancy sort of thing, with an appalling number of side effects- giddiness, exhaustion, plain simple weakness- but it's the only tool they have to combat Murdoc's shenanigans, so she's sticking with it. Jack Dalton's on it too (hasn't even taken out his new plane yet, to Penny's distress). MacGyver's refused it, point-blank. His usual antipathy to pharmaceuticals.

"Besides, I've got this hunch," he keeps saying. It's not as if anybody can gainsay him.

She hates this. Intelligence work is always a series of leaps in the dark, even at the best of times. Unless you're a certain blonde bombshell who's handed clear assignments because he's no good without a nice clear target- okay, so that's a little uncharitable. She must be more tired than she'd realised. But Phoenix's dream team are something else again (blast Jack for calling them that, she can't get the phrase out of her head now). They're flailing around with books and probes and nicely delineated graphs, but they don't know what they're _doing_. How can they not find that exasperating?

Of course, that attitude is why she's a spy and not an experimental researcher.

"Go and find yourself a distraction," she says out loud. "Stop thinking about this and let your subconscious get to work on the problem. Have a nice soothing evening out."

Fortunately, she knows just the thing.

* * *

Only MacGyver would think of turning dessert into a teaching experience; and only he could make it fun.

"The perfect mixture of the scientific," he says, passing her a set of safety goggles and a tiny blow torch, to match his. "And-"

"And what?"

"Romantic, maybe," he says, grinning. "Homemade creme brulee. C'mon, I'll show you. You'll be a natural at this in no time."

"Sugar and high intensity flame. That's..."

This time it's his turn to ask; which he does, not with words, but with a slightly inquiring tease in his eyes, a lift of the chin just so. They're worked together long enough to read each other's signals.

"Very you," Nikki whispers, letting her hand run down the small of his back. "So thoroughly, completely, utterly you."

"Shucks, you're nothing to sneeze at yourself," he returns. "Nikki, I want to tell you-"

Which is as far as he gets, since that's about the point when the fourteen heavily-armed cops barge into her apartment and arrest both of them.

Of the many and various frustrations of the next forty-eight hours, not knowing what he was going to say next is the one that bothers her most.

* * *

Interrogation. Truth serum. Her possessions vanishing without trace, a bruise on her upper arm and her left hip.

And then, just as she's got her teeth set for the long haul, it's over just like that. They toss her out of the police station, into the warmth of too-bright LA sunshine.

"Not without-" she calls.

Mac gets booted out moments after her, with a literal kick in the pants. He looks groggy and drugged-up, a little unfocused.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. Sure," he promises her. "Did you get the same treatment I did? Questions about Phoenix?"

"Just about. Maybe a little easier than you- did you tell them anything?"

"Of course not."

"I didn't either. Where are we making for?" MacGyver's heading down the street at a sharp pace.

"Closest telephone, Becky's probably in a panic. I have to get in touch with her before anything else, she can bring my jeep round and pick us up- how about you? Anybody who ought to know where you are?"

"Pete, I suppose- but he'll wait. You first."

She tags along, feeling a trifle useless.

They find a booth; he coaxes the telephone into operation, sans dimes. Pokes his head out of the booth almost immediately.

"Nothing. Not even a busy signal."

"Try somebody else."

Three attempts later, he punches the air when he finally gets through. It's cute and stupid simultaneously- as good an agent as he can be, she doubts he's ever going to have the requisite seriousness for the job.

"Penny's on her way," he says. "Nobody's picking up at Phoenix, god knows where Jack is-"

"But Penny Parker, MacGyver? Is that what we're reduced to? Asking favours from a tabloid model?"

"Hey, that was only the once. And I'm not stopping you from walking home, if you prefer."

"Tempting," she says, carefully lowering herself down onto the sidewalk. "But I think I'll give it a miss, this time."

"Suit yourself," he says, sitting down next to her. "Here."

He's holding something out to her, a brilliant sunlit blob of colour, and for a moment- one beautiful, tender moment- she's just a woman taking a flower from her own beloved lover.

Then she blinks, and it's just plain ordinary Mac again. Who for some reason is handing her a dandelion.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she asks, accepting the object somewhat gingerly.

"Well, they're sweeter than the rest of the plant," Mac says, brushing dirt off a few leafy greens and taking a bite. "I always hate the way my mouth tastes after sodium pentothal, don't you? Like overripe onions."

"All part of the job."

Actually, the smog-choked flower tastes worse to her than the familiar drench of truth serum; but she doesn't let on.

He does look so awfully pleased with himself.

* * *

Soon enough, Penny is peering and wailing her way through the slowness of LA traffic, while Becky wastes no time in updating them on the situation.

(At least, not after the obligatory kiss-and-cuddle between uncle and niece, that is. The teenager can hardly be begrudged that, Nikki has to admit. Having MacGyver for a caregiver has to be a stressful affair.)

"It's not good, Unc," Becky says, passing over a newspaper. "Look at this."

The headline's at least six inches tall.

"Treason charges? The Phoenix Foundation?" Mac says incredulously. "How?"

"Beats me, that's for sure. But the whole place is under lockdown until the federal investigators are done. And I mean everything- we're locked out of the apartment, even the Challengers Club has been shut down."

"This can't be happening," Mac mutters. "Won't they let you get your things, at least? You're not involved with any of this."

"I tried, Unc, but they're really serious. Four police officers raking over all our stuff, yesterday, and I have a feeling we're not getting any of it back. And your bank account's frozen. Along with the emergency credit card."

"What the hell is Pete doing?"

"Pete's in jail," Becky says, grimacing. "So's the entire Phoenix board. This isn't really the kind of thing that you're gonna clear in up three days, is it?"

"Well, we're going to have to try," Nikki says. "What about my apartment?"

"That's sealed off too."

"Nikki...never say die, but I think we're in trouble," MacGyver says with a frown. "Okay. So we're unemployed, broke, possibly going to have treason charges brought against us- is there anything else we need to know, Beck?"

"No. I think that's about it, for now."

"I should have let that hypothetical cat lady adopt you," he mutters.

"C'mon, Unc. I'd have hated that- at least this way, we're together," she says, taking his hand.

It's a warm and comforting thing, watching the two of them drawing strength from each other.

Nikki finds herself wishing, for the first time since her husband's death, that she had someone to turn to like that.

* * *

Penny's apartment is a bit cramped for one small actress. Let alone three more adults and one kid, Nikki observes.

"This is not going to be a tenable long-term situation. Or even a short-term one- why does everything smell like liquor?"

"That's just me!" Jack yells. "Two planes in two months? What the blazes is wrong with my life?"

"Language!" Penny scolds. "Did you spill any of it over my egg chair, Jack Dalton? Because if you did-"

Mac shuts the kitchen door after her and starts rooting through the cupboards. "I think I'm gonna have to agree with you there, Nikki. Got any backup plans?"

"For having my life's work taken away from me? I'm going down with the ship, MacGyver. I'm sure if I make enough of a nuisance of myself, they'll find a reason to lock me up too."

If she can't get her work back- if they're going to deny her that-

"Not an option open to me, unfortunately," Mac says, ruffling his niece's hair. "I've got somebody to look after- Becky, doesn't Penny have anything to eat besides diet shakes?"

"I get the idea Jack's been scoffing it all," Becky says. "He did mention hiding some chicken soup on top of the refrigerator."

"Fantastic. Cheer up, Nikki," he adds, cupping her chin in one hand. "We'll sort this out eventually. We always do."

"Sure. But on three days without sleep, I'm not going to any time today," Nikki says. "If you two don't mind, I'm going to go lie down."

Becky obligingly opens the door for her, then shuts it again, her eyes rather wide. "Uh, Nikki? I really wouldn't go in there right now."

"I don't care."

The teenager shrugs and gets out of her way.

She has a point- that sight of Jack and Penny falling off the sofa in an embarrassed tangle will haunt her for the rest of her days.

"Oh, go find a room, you two. I need sleep."

"I don't have another room!" Penny squeaks. "I mean, I'm really sorry, but I don't. Last month it was just me in two rooms, and now it's five people in two rooms, and that's, um- one over two is to five over two-"

"Your math's making my head hurt," Jack informs her, brushing off his mustache with great dignity. "Say. Is having this many people around even allowed in your lease?"

"Come to think of it, I don't know...but if I don't know one way or another, then I can't get in trouble for it. Right?"

"Oh my god," Jack mutters.

Nikki groans, grabs a large stuffed rabbit and a knitted throw, and retreats back to the kitchen.

"Do not even ask," she says to MacGyver, who's staring at her with a twitching mouth. "Do not."

"Okay," he says, and goes back to heating up his soup. Bless Midwestern terseness.

At least the rabbit turns out to be comfy.

* * *

Things get progressively more ridiculous over the following weeks.

Jack throws himself into legal technicalities, filling up the tiny apartment with no end of paperwork in the quest for getting his Phoenix-supplied airplane back. Penny insists that everybody take the fire escape in and out of the apartment, so they won't be going past the front desk.

"Isn't this more noticeable than just going in and out the normal way?" MacGyver asks, looking down the four-story drop with utter misery.

"I suppose we could try disguises," Penny says. "Would you like to have a look at my make-up collection? I'd love to show you!"

"Come to think of it, I'll stick with the fire escape."

Becky calmly goes and gets herself a night shift job at a fast food chain, which only further depresses her uncle.

"Working at four in the morning? Beck, that isn't healthy."

"You know I'm a night owl. And it's summer, I don't have to go to school or anything."

"Plus, I don't like that place. Their treatment of animals is beyond abhorrent."

"I'm not defending them for that. It's just that they were hiring and nobody else was."

"And you keep bringing all this junk food home," MacGyver says, around a mouthful of fries. "And I keep eating it."

"That's kinda the point. I wouldn't want my favourite uncle going hungry."

He sighs in exasperation. "This is beneath you. You're so much better than this."

"Sure. But I'm not the one who can prove Phoenix is squeaky clean, and you can- so how about getting on with that? Sooner you do, sooner I can quit."

"We're working on it," Nikki puts in. "To be brutally honest, Becky, it's not going well. We look and look, and we just find more evidence of what the prosecutors are saying."

"All trumped-up, I guess?" Becky asks.

Nikki hums to herself, sipping at her drink. Lukewarm cola is not her preferred caffeine delivery vehicle, but at least it's there. "Your uncle and I would certainly hope so."

 _Because if it isn't, then we gave some of the best years of our lives to agents of a foreign power._

And aside from anything else, that's just professionally embarrassing.

* * *

One afternoon, there's a knock on the door.

Everyone gets into place- Penny to answer the door with MacGyver besides her, she and Becky on the fire escape. That way they're ready for landlord inquires, spies with guns, or anything else. Turns out to be none of those.

"It's a restraining order," MacGyver reads. "Preventing us from residing in the same city as Murdoc. On account of multiple threats of violence, blah blah blah n' stuff- can you believe his nerve? And he's moved into a Bel Air mansion, to boot."

Becky frowns in a way that Nikki can't follow in the least. Either she's trying not to burst out laughing, or she's simply furious.

"Us?"

"You and me, Nikki. Guess we're out of LA for a while...it's not like we were getting anywhere with the investigation, was it?"

"No," she admits. "Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and we never realised- I mean, I'm not surprised that Pete was trying to protect you from all that. But to think I fell for it..."

"You were always better at this game than I was, too," MacGyver says. "How'd we miss it for so long?"

She hesitates. "You're not a spy at heart, you trust too much. Wearing your heart on your sleeve...and as for me, well."

"Well?" he ventures, a long while later.

"I wanted to trust you."

And it burns in her heart. That she'd needed so much, for MacGyver to be right; and therefore, must needs accept everything else around him to be right as well. Even when her instincts had told her to move on, to keep moving, never to be attached so closely ever again-was it worth it?

She's at a loss.

"What do we do now?" she asks.

"I have an idea..."

There's a Loud Noise in the corridor, identifiable as Jack after one of his more incoherent drinking bouts. Mac groans and lets him in.

"I've got it!" he hollers in ecstasy. "My plane back! Hurrah! Hip, hip hurrah! Who wants champagne?"

"How many have you had already, Jack?" MacGyver asks.

"Zero. I'm just really really happy right now- you want a flight anywhere? Anywhere on the globe, pick a spot! Dalton Airways is back in business, baby!"

"Ooh," Penny says, hugging him in delight. "Oh, that's wonderful news! And then I can have my apartment back."

"Anybody else get the idea that this is a hint?" Becky asks. "Seems funny timing..."

"It does," Nikki agrees. "But- what else is there for us to do? We've lost. Murdoc's won."

"This is kinda not the exit from the intelligence game I was planning," MacGyver says. "But...well, there are other things to do in life."

"Such as what?"

"There's one piece of property left. The old house back in Minnesota, I put that into Becky's name. So just in case something ever happened to me, she'd at least have one place to call home."

"You never said that," Becky says.

"I thought it might sound a little morbid...anyway. If you want to come, Nikki, my door will always be open to you."

"Mac, did you just propose?" Jack inquires.

He blushes, but nods.

What else can she do, but say yes?

* * *

Mission City.

A sleepy little town, back end of beyond. Quiet and unassuming.

"I was always a city girl," she tells MacGyver, as they walk. Jack had thoughtfully deposited them on the edge of town; and departed before anyone could report his airplane for landing where it shouldn't have. "The idea of an entire community shutting down after dark is a new one on me."

"Some things never change," MacGyver says with affection. "Sure you don't need any help with that, Nikki?"

"No." It's only the one bag, with a couple of Penny's longest dresses and a clean toothbrush. She's carried more on Phoenix training trips.

"You could carry mine," Becky mutters. "'m pretty tired, Unc."

"I kept telling you that job would catch up with you."

"Well, it's behind us now. And at least we've got a little money to start off with," Becky says, yawning. "Honestly, I think I might need to just sleep for about a week before I do anything else."

"Then you do that. I'll make sure everything's okay now- and Becky?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm very proud of you. You're more of a trooper than I ever expected."

She blushes as he kisses her forehead. "Thanks, Unc."

All sweet and kind and entirely in character for these two, and there's no reason for it to annoy her as much as it does.

 _Of course he doesn't need you, Nikki. If he did, you wouldn't be attracted to him._

"How much further?" she asks.

"Call it a half mile or so...huh, that garage is still going. Good to know," MacGyver says. "I'll ask tomorrow, see if I can get some kind of gig there. Or ask if there's anybody else who might need a handyman."

"I suspect you're going to have more luck than I will." Her resume is essentially blank, given her spy activities. Worse than that, there is literally nothing she can imagine doing with her life. Mac says it's shock, one she'll get over; and she certainly hopes he's right.

"We'll see," he says, warm and reassuring. "C'mon."

The house turns out to be larger than she'd expected; an imposing building, looking down on the more modest houses around. There are shapes visible through the plate glass front, though in the darkness she can't quite make them out.

"We'll go in round the back," MacGyver says. "I think there's some candles in the cellar, and some firewood- I know it's a little warm for a fire, but that'll cheer us up. At least, it always did when I was a kid."

"Sounds good," Becky agrees. "And guess what I brought along? Marshmallows."

"Thoughtful as ever," Mac says, unlocking the door. "Ah- all the stuff's still here. I thought they cleaned this out a little more."

No candles: but he finds a high-powered torch that does rather better. "One of my first experiments, Beck. I never would have counted on this still working."

"Oh, that's so clever!" Becky says, cooing in delight at the rudimentary machine.

Nikki finds herself wondering whether she's turned invisible.

The floor upstairs is a bit depressing, with dust sheets covering lumps of furniture in mysterious ways; but the one above that is even more so. Avocado-green kitchen fixtures (why do they call it that, when it looks nothing like avocado?), and some horrifically '70s wood paneling.

"Oh, this is nice." MacGyver says. "Just the way I remember it."

"And the fireplace is clean," Becky observes. "Flue's good and everything."

They get to work as though they're rehearsed this, dusting and unpacking. Nikki gets to work on the fire. That, at least, was in her training.

(When is she going to have another chance to exercise her skills? Will she, ever again?)

Light. Warmth. A hot dinner.

"Could be a lot worse," MacGyver reflects. "The bedrooms need airing, though. Those mattresses should have gone years ago."

"Well, this floor's not so bad," Becky says, patting the carpeting. "We can sleep on this comfortably enough."

"For now, at least...I'll fix up some pine bough beds in the morning. Trust me, you've never slept on anything half as nice."

"And we can - ooh! You know what we should do?"

"What, Beck?"

"Buy a chicken! Or two chickens, so they can be friends."

"Not a bad idea...hey, Nikki, what do you think?"

"Oh...I don't know. I'm tired, Mac, I'm getting a headache."

(Damn it. She is not the kind of woman who gets sick headaches.)

"Want me to go and get some aspirin? I could probably borrow some from a neighbour- Mission City is friendly like that."

"No. No, I just need some sleep."

"If you're sure, then."

The other two set up a nice little nest for her on the sofa. They talk, softly, about their future, while she buries her face against the cushions and tries not to think.

 _Oh god. Oh god, how did I get into this?_

 _Useless, that's what I am. Utterly useless, nothing to do with my life- or nothing to do besides hang on MacGyver's arm and compliment his handicraft, and he already has a niece to do that for him. What on earth am I doing here?_ _The worst kind of trap I've ever been in- worse than that time in Serbia, worse than the funeral- at least those times I had my work!_

 _A nightmare, that's what this is. A nightmare that I'll never get out of-_

she has never been a praying kind of person, but Nikki Carpenter prays and hopes and silently sobs her heart out, if only this could be a dream. If she could have her office back, her missions, her files-

* * *

\- she comes to, hugging Murdoc's file to her heart. Oh dear god.

She'd been so contemptuous of Jack's confession, almost signing over his soul and his friend's life for a lump of metal. And here she'd been willing herself to do just the same thing.

"Nikki, are you okay?"

MacGyver's hand is resting on her shoulder, just a light touch to wake her. For one hideous moment, his image swims in front of her, as though her surroundings might resolve into a Minnesota farmstead.

She focuses, ignoring him in favour of the girl at his side. "Becky, you have to tell me. Am I dreaming?"

"No," Becky says, startled but prompt.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Normally, she would never take anybody's unsupported word at strictly face value. Not even-

"If Becky says you're not, you're not," MacGyver promises her. All she can do is trust them.

(And heaven help her, but if this is the dream she'd rather stay asleep.)


	11. Letting go

The afternoon pizza get-together is a subdued affair, more so than any Nikki can recall from her entire stint at Phoenix. There'd been a time, years back, when her reaction to the frivolity in this place had been one of impatient dismissal. A yen for a more serious work environment.

Well, now everybody's as serious as she could wish; and how she wishes it could be the other way again.

"I'd swear I just lived a whole month in one night," she tells them. "Even now, I can't think of a single thing to distinguish between what was happening to me then and now- there wasn't any flying, nothing egregiously silly. Bodily sensations, other people's reactions, everything worked just as you might expect. I had no way of knowing when it would end, I didn't have the slightest idea when reality even left off- this can't go on. We need a weapon, or a defense, or failing that, talking terms with Murdoc."

Becky nods in understanding, but she's the only one. Her boss looks drained and shaken. MacGyver's restlessly pacing the floor.

Jack slams his fist against the table, a move which would have worked rather better if he didn't happen to be holding a slice of pepperoni at the time. Tomato sauce splatters all over the table. "Over my dead body, okay? I'm not handing Mac over to that maniac for anything."

Overcompensating, Nikki thinks. "Nobody said anything like that."

"Yes, you were."

"Cool it, Jack, I'll fight my own battles," MacGyver says, dryly. The pilot subsides. "As it happens, my niece has an idea."

"That's why we were having this meeting in the first place," Becky says. "The Cosmogone file was the key, I finally know what I have to do next."

Nikki represses a sense of scandal at the girl getting hold of all these classified files. MacGyver's achieved some quite impressive results by drafting Mission Impossible civilians, but that move always strikes her as...well, declasse.

"Let me guess," she says. "More nightmares."

"Well, yes. The dream team's figured out this plan to keep me under until I can fix this for good- and I'm gonna need some help," she says, looking at Pete. "It's kind of a weird list."

"The right tool for the right job," Pete remarks. "And that seems to be you right now, so fire away."

Nikki catches sight of a smoldering jealousy in MacGyver's eyes- a look that comes and goes so quickly, he's probably hardly conscious of it- and almost laughs. Watching Pete interacting with Becky as an agent in her own right has to be hard on the poor guy. He does tend towards the overprotective.

"Um...okay, Beatty and Morgan already told me that they'd make sure one of them was on call at all times, when I was ready. Subject to your approval."

"Granted, of course," Pete says. "That was easy-"

"I'm not done yet," Becky interjects. "Um- we don't know how long I'm going to take. Could be days. But as long as it is, I need to have Unc or Jack or Nikki around the whole time- and they'll have to be awake, so I guess you'll need a duty roster or something."

Her voice is gaining in confidence as she talks. Not bad for somebody who's learning how to give orders for the first time, Nikki thinks. "Why am I in on this?"

Becky smiles. "Cos I trust you. And you don't have other agents to look after, like Pete does."

"Phoenix has other agents?" Jack jokes. "Coulda fooled me."

"So there's that- and Unc, they're going to use some light sedatives to keep me under, so I don't wake up by accident. I'm just saying that now so you don't panic later."

Predictably, he frowns. "But how are you going to be able to wake up when you want to?"

"Oh, that part's easy. We practiced that the first week, it's no trouble for me now. Let's see- duty roster, sedatives- and most importantly, I need somebody to get me a dozen cider apples from Oregon. As fresh as they can get 'em."

"Now what's that for?" Pete asks. Same lightly curious tone he always uses whenever MacGyver's justifying the destruction of another gross of SAKs.

"Well." She brings out a notebook. "See, there's references in the Cosmogone file to a particular recipe that my mother used to trigger apotheosis - she never lists the recipe, and part of the reason the programme shut down is because they couldn't duplicate her results without it. But I've got it. It's been in her cookbook the whole time."

"Allison was never that much of a cook," MacGyver says, brows knit.

"It's a short cookbook," Becky says, smiling. "Honestly, I think the other recipes were just put in here for cover, cos I don't remember her making any of them, but this should work. Just a simple cider mix. Should lead me to Parabola itself- and then I can confront Murdoc."

"How do you know he'll be there?"

"I'll be there at a time he is," Becky says, shrugging. "Which is maybe last week, from his point of view- but dreams are dreams. You can't count on strict chronological order in those, you know."

"It's not much of a plan, is it?" Jack puts in. "Still. More organised than these contretemps with Murdoc usually go, I suppose."

"Oh, good enough for me," MacGyver says. "Only one change. I'll do it instead."

Becky hesitates.

Nikki longs to intervene, but restrains herself. MacGyver's niece is still a child, after all, one who shouldn't be involved in this if she doesn't want to.

"Unc. I think I have to."

"Nu-uh, you don't," MacGyver says firmly. "Look. I can do-"

Now she can jump in. "MacGyver, I'd highly doubt that. For once in your life, you're going to have to admit that you're not qualified for the job."

"What do you mean, not qualified- how hard is it to drink some apple juice and fall asleep?"

"All right, a few questions," Nikki says. "Who in this room keeps a dream diary?"

She puts her hand up; everybody else does, except Mac.

"And for how long?"

"Since the Kimbala affair," Pete says. Jack nods in agreement.

"I"ve been doing it for a month, ever since I started this in earnest. How about you, Becky?"

"Oh- years and years, I guess. Mom always said it was a good tool for exercising your creativity- I've been a lucid dreamer for a while. Especially after the car crash," Becky says, slow and thoughtful. "Waking myself up from bad dreams, you know?"

"And is anybody else in this room a lucid dreamer? Without their niece's intervention," she adds, when MacGyver opens his mouth.

Silence.

"All right, Nikki, you've made your point," Pete says. "MacGyver, you're going to have to face this. Becky is-"

"Don't say it," MacGyver interrupts. "Don't go ahead and tell me that she's not a kid and that I have to let her grow up. That kind of cliche is fine for everyday stuff, getting a driving license and stuff- but we're not talking about that! We're talking about letting my defenseless niece go up against one of the craziest assassins on the planet! And I can learn, whatever nonsense this is-"

"The rest of us are more defenseless than she is, that's why she ought to go," Nikki insists. "MacGyver, we're out of time. Suppose that was just an opening shot- suppose the next time, the target doesn't wake up at all. Or worse- look, maybe you can cope with anything, but suppose Murdoc picks a civilian target next time. One of your friends who's halfway across the world, somebody who doesn't even know about this."

"Okay, so I'll have to move quickly. As soon as I can get up to speed- but I am not letting Becky do this, do you understand?" His voice has hardened, into the impatient tone he normally reserves for foolhardy civilians endangering themselves. "I'm not having this!"

"Please stop shouting," Jack murmurs, his eyes closed. "I'll be good, uncle, I promise I'll be good."

Nikki's skin crawls. His voice is pitched a little higher than normal, with a pleading whine in it that frankly revolts her. "What's with you?"

MacGyver's gone white. He upends Jack's chair in one swift burst of panic, leaving the pilot to fall to the floor with a bang.

"Ow! What the heck- what was that for?"

"Tell me you weren't dreaming?"

"I'm certainly awake now," Jack says, fairly disgruntled. "What'd you think was happening?"

"Wisconsin," MacGyver says. In deep distress, as though invoking the state is quite the worst thing he can possibly imagine. Midwesterners are hilarious sometimes, Nikki thinks.

Jack shivers. "Probably. Yeah, I'll bet you caught me just in time- Mac, do you know how much coffee I've been getting through lately? And if those drugs aren't working anymore...I mean, I'm not as tough as you or Nikki. If Murdoc pushes hard enough, I'm gonna break."

"Don't sell yourself short," MacGyver encourages him. "I've got every confidence in you."

"I don't," Jack says flatly. "And you aren't too sure about me yourself, deep down, or you wouldn't have panicked like that the moment I started nodding."

"So much for gratitude, huh? Thought you'd appreciate it, that's all."

Jack makes a face. "I do. I don't want to wake up and find I've sold you out, because Murdoc convinced me I'm ten again- Mac, they're right. Somebody's got to take care of this, and there isn't anybody qualified for it except Becky."

"And let's face it," Becky says, in a matter-of-fact voice. "It'll be kinda fun, having something of my own at last."

Matter-of-fact, nothing. There's a glint in her eye, a tense excitement in her movements as she leans across the table, staring intently at her uncle. Nikki thinks back rather fondly to her own first mission, and realises in surprise that this girl is only a little younger than that.

"And suppose I lose you, huh?" MacGyer says, very softly. "How d'you think I could live with myself, if you died fighting my battles for me?"

"How do you think I'll feel," Becky challenges him, "when you die in a nightmare? This'll be a suicide mission for you, Unc. At least I'll have a fighting chance."

"You don't know that."

"I've got Phoenix on my side. My mother's instructions, the good sense that you taught me- and more than that, I'll have you. Staying by my side until this is over, because I know you will."

"The answer's still no," MacGyver says, very tense.

"Enough back and forth already. MacGyver, don't make me put you off the project," Pete says in a tired voice.

"What? Be serious, Pete-"

"I am serious. As Phoenix operations director, it's my responsibility to assign the best-suited agent to every assignment, and you simply aren't it. Becky's on Phoenix payroll, in case you've forgotten."

"Don't you dare use that as blackmail!"

"I'm not trying to," Pete says. "What I'm saying is, this is not your choice. It's hers. And she seems to have decided."

"I don't need another self-sacrificing, suicide-bent victim getting killed on my behalf," Mac says, in a jerky voice. "Seen way too many of those already."

"Then forget you," Becky says, a snap of impatience in her voice at last. "Say it's for Nikki- because honestly, Nikki, I've seen you with a gun at your head looking less scared than you did this afternoon."

"True enough."

"And say it's for Jack, and Penny- do you even want to think what would happen, if Murdoc tries this out on her? I don't. And for me. Because I've had enough of Murdoc toying with all of us, and now that I have the chance, I'm gonna do something about it! Okay?"

He's turned away, tears in his eyes. Jack passes him a soiled handkerchief.

"This isn't really very helpful," MacGyver says, after a moment. Sounding fairly wobbly. "I mean, uh- Jack, this is covered in cheese. And pizza sauce."

"Oh. Oops?"

Nikki shoves a pile of paper napkins in the troubleshooter's direction; he dabs at his eyes. "I suppose you're all right- but it's hard, you know? I ought to be able to do everything for her."

"Relationships are a two-way street," Nikki says, glancing at Becky. The girl seems a little stunned by her own outburst.

 _Good for you, Becky Grahme. You're going to need all that determination when Murdoc shows up._


	12. Family matters

MacGyver frowns at his sister's handwriting. It's in a nice clear cursive (better than his own somewhat slapdash style, he has to admit), but for some reason the words aren't making sense to him.

 _Hesperidean Cider:_

 _When prepared properly, the cider will induce a state of apotheosis in a lucid dreamer, enabling him or her to transcend the limited confines of the human mind and freely travel Parabolan space. Ingredients are as follows..._

A soft knocking at his door. "Yeah?"

Becky pokes her head in timorously. "Unc? Can we talk?"

"Sure." She warily lingers by the doorway and he sighs. "It's okay, I'm not gonna bite your head off. C'mon over." Pats the space next to him on the bed.

There's a melancholic trouble in her eyes as she approaches, a feeling he recognizes all too well.

Their first major disagreement in he can't remember how long and he'd flown completely off the handle, as Harry might say. The vehemence of his reaction took even himself by surprise, leaving them too shaken to say much to each other on the ride home.

(Granted it's not a normal act of teenage rebellion, though on reflection Becky hasn't exactly had an normal teenage life. Certainly not since the car crash.)

"That Mom's notebook?"

"Yeah."

A long silence follows. The last time Mac's had such an awkward conversation with Becky was when she was starting her periods; he wonders briefly if he should fetch some chocolates from downstairs as a peace offering.

"I'm not changing my mind, Unc," Becky finally ventures. "This is something I have to do myself."

"I get that now. Don't like it much, can't help that. But I get it."

"I don't think you really do. This isn't like one of your usual missions for Phoenix. Nothing here can be handled at a purely physical level, it's all mental. Besides, you don't have the temperament."

"What do you mean?"

"You called it nonsense earlier, which means you don't really believe in it. Which is okay," she adds, waving off his protestations. "You've always been the skeptic in the family."

And she's always been the dreamer, he thinks, recalling the incredible childhood kingdom he once helped her build. She's open to all sorts of possibilities, a trait he's secretly envied.

Okay, so this lucid dreaming stuff in truth might not be something he can handle alone, though it pains him to admit it even to himself. Maybe for once he needs to take a step back, let Becky have her moment in the sun.

Though he'll never, _ever_ , forgive himself if anything happens to her. (Or Murdoc for that matter, but himself most of all.)

"You're right," he says at last. "About everything. But gosh Becky, you know I'd take your place in an instant if I could." On the spur of the moment he scoops her up; she makes a little squeak as he presses her close to his heart. "You're all I got, sweetheart. I don't ever want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either. Which is why I'm going ahead with the project, whether you're there or not. It's gotta be me, Uncle Mac," she adds softly. "Murdoc's a threat to more than just our own well-being; no telling how many other lives would be at stake if we don't stop him now."

He feels a surge of pride despite himself. Becky's so stubborn, so very determined to do the right thing. Like uncle, like niece.

(Like mother, like daughter as well, he hopes. If Allison could only see her now.)

"I'll be right by your side while you're under," he murmurs. "Whatever you need. Promise."

"Thanks." She reaches to kiss his cheek, then glances at the notebook still resting open in his lap. "Hesperidean Cider?"

"Yeah. Don't get the reference, though."

"I do. The golden apples of the Hesperides; Heracles had to locate and retrieve them as one of his twelve labors. Golden apples are mentioned in other world mythologies, too. Some kind of divine fruit."

"How come you know so much about that?"

She shrugs. "You know me, I read a lot. I was into that stuff for a while as a kid."

"Oh. Anyway, it's supposed to induce a state of apotheosis, so you can get to Parabola easier." He frowns. "Though I'm not sure how that word applies in this context, really."

"There's more than one meaning to it. Normally it's the culmination or zenith of something, but it also means raising someone to divine status; I looked that up in the dictionary downstairs."

"So drinking your mom's cider turns you into a goddess? I'd worship you any day."

He winks and she rolls her eyes, lifting the notebook to swat him. A folded piece of paper suddenly slips out the back and down to the bed. She picks it up and gasps. "Unc, listen to this."

 _Dear Becky,_

 _If you've found this letter then what I've long feared has happened. Something or someone is tampering with Parabola and the dreams of those we care about, which in turn has activated a certain potential I set into your developing mind at an early age. I hope one day you'll forgive me for what I've forced upon you without your consent; please understand I only did it out of love._

 _With my cider recipe you'll now be able to access Parabola, the realm of infinite possibilities. I've tried to give you every safeguard and protection my research has uncovered, but the rest you'll simply have to work out on your own. Your vivid imagination, common sense, innate curiosity and desire to help those in need (so much like myself and my brother, I'm proud to note) should hold you in good stead during your sojourn._

 _If Mac is still with you then the lifelong connection you share (one of my implanted safeguards, by the way) remains active. He'll be the silver cord, to guide you back to the real world when you need it._

 _You're about to have an amazing experience, sweetheart. I wish I could be there to guide you, but if not know that you have my best wishes for luck, my blessing and my love always, no matter what the future holds._

 _Your mother,_

 _Allison_

A long silence follows. As do a few tears shed by both uncle and niece.

Mac clears his throat. "Guess that's settled, then. This mission is yours, Becky. If you choose to accept it."

"What choice do I have?" She looks at him almost shyly. "But before then, could we spend the night together in simple old-fashioned sleep, like we used to?"

He chuckles, reaching for the bedside lamp before settling them more comfortably against the pillows. "Absolutely. Whatever my goddess wishes."

She groans. "I'm never gonna live that down from now on, am I?"

"Nope. Sweet dreams, Beck."

"You too, Unc."

As he cuddles Becky close and his eyes begin to close MacGyver realizes a couple things.

One, their situations have been reversed, ironically enough. It's her turn to go out and save the day while he remains behind in support, with help from his friends, the Phoenix dream team and her mother's research. She's probably as ready to face Murdoc in Parabola as she'll ever get; it's time for his niece to come into her own.

And two, he doesn't mind a bit. Not anymore.

Their dreams actually are sweet and peaceful, for once.


	13. Preparations

"You don't all have to be here," Becky says, as she pulls the blankets over herself. No lab sheets for her, this time; these are her own handmade quilts, warm and soft. No itchy revealing hospital gown, either; loose, comfy pajamas clad her body instead. "I mean, I expected Unc-"

"I should hope so," MacGyver says, fiddling with the settings on the VCR he's brought in. There's a heavy-duty set of headphones, and a stack of tapes as high as the chair he's sitting on. "I'm in this for the long haul."

Morgan waves at them as she rushes past, hands full of electrical cables and incense. Beatty smiles from nearby, readying IV bags- sedatives to keep her under, saline drip to keep her hydrated, and nutrients to keep her from starving- and other medical equipment. They have no idea how long she'll be under, after all, so it's best to be prepared for any contingency.

The scientists are optimistic about her plans though, and have been rushing hither and thither and yon all morning. Hopefully, the results will reward all their effort.

"But honestly, it is just going to be me lying here sleeping," Becky says. "Not the most exciting thing in the world."

"We'll see a bit more than that, hopefully," a cheerful dark-haired woman says in a British accent, parking a wheeled machine nearby. A colorful sari peeks out from beneath her white coat.

"This is Dr. Chandrashekar," Becky informs the others. "She's in charge of the new machine- what is it again, Lakshmi, a brainwave TV of sorts?"

"More or less. What it does," the scientist explains, "is convert encephalic voltages- brainwaves, if you will- received via the visual and auditory cortices into a viewable format on our monitors. So we'll hopefully watch what happens while you're dreaming. Rather experimental, though. Director Thornton here was instrumental in borrowing it for us from UC Berkeley for the duration."

"At great expense," he huffed. "But under the circumstances a necessary one."

"Nothing but the best for new agents, huh Pete?" Mac says with a sly grin. "Or are you here just to make sure your investment doesn't get harmed?"

Pete clears his throat, harrumphs a bit. "I like seeing off my agents on their first missions. It's a little superstition of my own, I suppose."

"I'll try not to disappoint, sir," Becky replies soberly, though she's trying hard not to giggle at the same time.

"Considering your upbringing? I'm sure you won't."

All things considered, she feels pretty relaxed about the whole affair. Maybe it's because everyone's trying to stay positive for her sake.

"I'm just here for moral support," Nikki says. "MacGyver's, that is, not yours. Becky, you'll get on just fine."

"Thanks. I think?"

"Hey!"

"So don't get any silly notions about plugging yourself into that machinery," Nikki says to MacGyver. "Quite apart from anything else, I really am very fond of your skeptical demeanor. It'll throw me terribly if you changed gears on me now."

"Glad to hear that from somebody," he returns; and they gaze at each other happily enough. Downright adorable, and Becky privately promises herself to have a word about that, when she wakes up. With both of them.

A technician passes her a cup full of fresh-brewed Hesperidean Cider. "Ready when you are," he tells her. "Just drink this and we'll take care of everything else."

"Thanks." The smell reminds her of apple-orchard visits as a kid, crisp fall days and rainy nights dreaming by the fire with her loved ones around her. Good warm cozy feelings.

She raises it in a toast. "Here goes nothing."

"To a successful mission," Nikki counters, and the others murmur agreement.

"I'd say I'm here for moral support too, but really I'm just a coward," Jack admits, as she starts sipping the golden-red cider. Smooth and light going down, with maybe a twinge of something more acidic in the aftertaste. "Being around you kinda makes me feel safer right now, kiddo."

He says it cheerfully enough, but she can see he means it. (No eye-twitch, for a start.) "It'll be okay, guys. Don't worry about me. Really. I'll be fine."

"Oh we know, Just don't forget there are people who care about you. Whatever happens in there- or out there, whatever- be sure to remember that one thing."

And the phrase lingers with her, as she drains the cup, the helmet's gently lowered onto her head and she slips into sleep. Honesty from a huckster, laughter from a spy. The feeling of warmth against her own cool flesh, as her uncle takes her hand.

"Sweet dreams, Becky," she hears him whisper before fully going under. "See you when you wake up."

She's not going to let them down.


	14. Interlude 3: Sea of dreams

Parabola.

The realm of flux and change. An infinitely mutable sea of creation.

Comparing it to an ocean isn't really accurate, yet it does possess waves and currents. Dreams of all types ebb and flow like the tides. Tendrils of sensory impressions drift by, leaving memories in their wake. Passionate visions surge with all the force of a tsunami. Fantasies of every flavor swirl about, teasing and tantalizing. Nightmares condense around anxieties, forming storms and hurricanes. There are even islands after a fashion, notional pockets that appear and dissolve as needed.

No treacheries of time or space exist in this domain. Everything occurs within an infinite Here and Now; a dream may occur last week or sometime in the future at any location at all, real or imagined. Neither rhyme nor reason hold sway in Parabola, save in the mind of the dreamer.

(How can one describe someplace that has no concrete existence, anyway? Might as well explain color to those without even the slightest concept of the idea, though the Parabolic spectrum possesses more colors than the ordinary visible wavelengths, cosmogone among them.)

Scientists such as Elizabeth Morgan, Sarah Beatty and Allison Grahme believe Parabola to be the actual seat of the collective unconscious, as first theorized by Carl Jung. An assemblage of symbols and archetypes shared by every human being in existence but retained at the unconscious level, accessed only through the process of dreaming.

Parabola's older than Jung, however. Far older than any science, philosophy or organized religion which attempts to describe it. Nearly as old as the first sentient creatures in the universe who were fully able to process information and make inquiries, thereby turning raw abstract chaos into something else entirely.

Multiple realities can be accessed from here. Parallel universes, other possibilities, forming every time choices are made (or not made, as the case may be). Worlds of the imagination, each one an alternative, an escape. The realities are solid enough, after a fashion. But they also remain open to a degree of experimentation, providing enticement for the knowledgeable lucid dreamer and worlds-traveller who wishes to have an impact on the waking world.

This is the domain of What-If, Is and Is-Not, Always-Has-Been and Never-Shall-Be. The pure font of inspiration where dreams originate, along with myths, visions and stories. Source and instrument and terminus, all at once.

Parabola- the collective unconscious- gives the waking world, the _conscious_ world, meaning. The issue of whether one believes in it or not is unimportant; it nonetheless exists, which is all that matters.

Few who venture here willingly- in the name of science or a more nefarious purpose- return to the waking world unchanged. None can describe what they experience while under without sounding slightly bonkers, to be sure.

This boundless realm is now the battlefield for two lucid dreamers: an assassin driven to complete his objective no matter the cost, and the young woman determined to stop him.

The prize? The soul and sanity of one man, infinitely important to both parties.

Battles in the waking world have been fought over far less crucial matters.


	15. Queen's own

Two dreamers face each other, on a notional island surrounded by the infinite sea of Parabola.

"Miss Grahme. Fancy meeting you here."

"I'm not here to play any of your twisted games, Murdoc. You need to stop meddling in my friends' dreams. What will it take to get you off their backs?"

"Perhaps a game of chess?" He holds out two pieces. "White or black? Shall I even bother asking?"

"Never mind the rest of the connotations. White's for initiative, the opening move- and I think we can agree I have that at present."

"Play on, MacDuff. I'll confess to some disappointment, however."

"Because I'm not my uncle?" She glances at the table- cold bier stone, with a crystallising purple rose besides the chess set. "I do get the idea that you were expecting someone else."

"A shame. His _œuf poché et truffe_ will have gone cold by the time he shows up- as he's bound to, eventually." She places her pawn out, casually. He matches the movement, not her sentiment. "Though perhaps you might..."

"Might what?" she ventures, after a long silence.

"Do you believe in love at first sight? Soulmates? An adoration fit to topple empires and burn away souls?"

"Sure. I've seen _The Princess Bride_ too, you know. And the idea's been mentioned in some of the books I've read."

"Becoming aware of such a connection's a very disconcerting experience, for somebody in my business. It took a long time for me to accept. So foreign to the way I thought about myself, you see."

"Uh-huh."

(Her uncle's phrasing, but there's a certain understanding that's all her own.)

"I don't know how many dreams it took me, before I recognised that MacGyver and I were meant to be together. Longer than it should have been, I'll admit- though far less time than he's taken."

"There's this minor problem," Becky observes, taking one of his knights, "that he doesn't like you at all? I think that'd kinda get in the way."

"Immaterial. We had a special connection, your uncle and I. Fated. Fixed. Inevitable."

She blanches.

"I love him, I'll admit that frankly. And he'd have come to love me, in time- the man simply couldn't have helped himself. Not with my encouragements shifting through his every dream, running beneath his every waking thought- whispering in his ear every moment, so that he'd never get away from me. Do you know what happened?"

"No."

"Your mother," Murdoc remarks. "Quite out of all linear sanity, of course, but then this is Parabola…she saw that hot, beating life-line twinning hearts unto eternity, and she simply stole it. Plain, simple theft, Miss Grahme. Washed out the bloodstains, purified the lust to innocent love, turned ferocious passions to bland familial affection - and now you have it. Rooted through your soul so deeply, I'd shatter the pair of you to take it outright. So I had to find other avenues."

"That's not the version she told me. Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"Perhaps it isn't my version," Murdoc tells her, very coolly. "Perhaps I'm appealing to your romanticism- are you going to play this game, or not?"

Becky moves, hasty and careless. He takes two pieces before the play's done.

"Do you even like chess?" she asks.

"It's the traditional symbol of the Great Game. I hold a mastership in chess. It's ideal," Murdoc says, decapitating one of her pawns with a letter opener, "as a metaphor for the little tête-à-tête we're enjoying just at present."

"But do you like it?" Becky presses.

"Actually, no. But that's beside the point. Symbolism is everything, in Parabola."

"I'm starting to figure that out," she notes dryly. In a surprise two-part ambush she takes a bishop, then later a rook.

Not bad, if a bit brash. He'll have to watch his young opponent in future.

She carries a knife, and her innocence, and a certain wry resilience forged in heartbreak, that makes her just a trifle more difficult than he can reasonably cope with. For the moment.

Which means he'll have to come up with something to distract her. If the teenager is anything like MacGyver (as she seems to be), she simply cannot resist helping someone in need.

And he has the perfect scenario to use as bait...

* * *

The dream is cold, ill-lit; Becky and Murdoc make their moves, with stone pieces that each of them place on the board only with difficulty. They're surprisingly heavy to the touch.

Her uncle's taught her how to play chess, naturally, but it's not her game and she knows it. Her queen's in a lot of trouble.

"So," she says conversationally, "if you have this thing for my uncle, why do you think meddling in this plane is the best way to ensure he feels the same in return?"

"Because Parabola is a land of many dreams, and finding the right one ought to be such a simple proposition- but the technical problems are astonishingly insurmountable."

Only Murdoc, seriously. "I can't imagine why."

"The first issue is, when he's not heterosexual enough to date an entire high school's worth of self-assertive cheerleaders, MacGyver usually talks himself into a sickeningly adorable relationship with that wretched pilot. Just because Dalton gets there before I do."

"Why don't you put yourself into Minnesota first, then?"

"If I wanted to upend my entire life to be the sort of person MacGyver wishes I was," Murdoc remarks, "I could be doing that already. Obviously I don't intend to- so I've been using his dreams as a slate for possible scenarios, wiping out the failures as I go. Not as neatly as I could wish. I did try to convince Dalton to let me off-load some of the lingering nightmares into his useless skull, but he put up an annoyingly stiff resistance."

"We sorted that out eventually, no thanks to you. So this is why you've been messing around in his head, huh? Trying to find the one scenario that'll suit you?"

"Is it so much to ask? I want a Reflection where MacGyver is my partner, in bed and in the field, that's it. And yet...you know, my first experiment was just cutting you and your mother out of the timeline. I thought it'd make him more open, more vulnerable. Instead he closed up so hard that nobody could get near him- though really, that one ought to have worked out. Isolated, nameless, cut off from everything he knew and loved before I was through, and he still wouldn't have me. Extremely irritating."

"I'm surprised." She is, a little. What's her uncle without love?

"I would have been, had I survived the experience," Murdoc agrees. "I kept trying. Experiments with amnesia, but that never seems to work out- he's very resilient. But you knew that."

"Of course."

"And the long and the short of it is, in most realities where he's deprived of his family, he apparently feels too lost and insecure to settle into a reasonable relationship- you know, I burned Mission City to the ground more than once just to test. The trouble there is, by the time he makes it to adulthood he's generally lost all interest in anything remotely resembling a violent profession. I get a Challengers Club recruit who dabbles in chemistry on the weekends."

"I'm kinda surprised," Becky says, moving a piece, "that you haven't tried just killing Jack yet."

She has to understand how he thinks, if she's going to have a chance at this game. At least to an order of approximation.

"I have done," Murdoc says, distinctly annoyed now. "Technical problems again- every single time that MacGyver survives that little calamity and manages to stay in the Great Game for more than the amount of time it takes to pen a resignation letter, he inevitably ends up dying in a two-bit Latin American country trying to rescue Pete Thornton. Even when I'm along. Even more gorily when I'm along, in fact. So. I'm willing to talk terms."

"Terms?"

"I have a rather promising line of research going at the moment- a few of them, in fact, but also a complete disaster in the brewing. Moving MacGyver out of that silly Mission City at a young age, but Dalton's invited himself along and persists on staying. However torturous I make life for him. Why don't I hand that dream over to you, and you can see what you'd make of it?"

"Wait. Are we talking about actual realities here, with actual people? Or just dreams?"

"I haven't the slightest notion," Murdoc says. "Nor do I care. But there we are- perhaps you can persuade MacGyver into the right state of mind. Though I advise you to visit one of my more successful experiments, first. To give you a sense of background, so to speak."

Gives her a smirk. _See how magnanimous I'm being?_ At the same time he checkmates her; she lays her king down.

He hands the piece back, now vibrant and lit from within. There's power in it, somehow.

"Suppose I can't, huh? Or won't?"

"I've no interest in what you do with it otherwise- no, I do. Tell the truth, I am brazenly curious to see what you'll try next, and that's as much of a safeguard as anybody meeting me ever has."

Becky's seen that expression before, Murdoc studying her uncle with his usual lewd interest. It is infinitely terrifying to be the target of it herself.

She knows she's not the kind of person who should be decking out fates like cards. Nobody should have that kind of power.

Murdoc definitely shouldn't.

In the real world her uncle wouldn't hesitate to risk his life for others if it meant saving them from the assassin's clutches. How could she do less, here in Parabola?

"I'll do it. But one thing you should know first."

"And that is?"

"I don't mind losing this sort of game. You go ahead and set up as many as you want. I'll be here to play you every time."

"You'll run out of patience eventually."

"For my uncle's sake? Just try me."

"I'll take that under consideration for the next time. Enjoy yourself, Miss Grahme."

He's still smirking as she grabs the king and vanishes.

After he departs in turn the island disappears- bier, chess set and all.

As ephemeral as anything in Parabola, without leaving even a ripple to mark its existence.


	16. Captive audience

_A reference to the Second Chances 'verse in this one. See our community for more details._

* * *

Past midnight now.

"Nothing's happening," Nikki says. Loudly, over the sound of Dalton's soft snoring.

"She's already had a long day, don't forget," Mac says as he gets up and stretches. "Probably take her a while longer to hit the first dream cycle, that'll be when the fun starts. We may never get to see the transition to Parabola, anyway."

"I know, I was listening to the briefing. It's just…this is so passive. I'm amazed you're being as patient as you are."

"Don't jinx it," MacGyver tells her. "Maybe, despite everything, there's a bit of me that reckons this is all gonna be so much fuss about nothing- and if it is, I promise I'll be more relieved than anything."

"You're worried about Becky?"

A halfhearted shrug. "Can't help but be. Allison raised her, and I've done all I can to do right by her the rest of the way. I've taught her how to handle things here in the real world. But this..." He waves vaguely in the direction of the darkened monitor hooked up to the machine (Jack's taken to calling it dreamvision, though it actually has a much more technical name). "This is something else entirely. Not ashamed to admit it's way beyond my skillset."

"This is beyond any of ours, to be honest," Nikki admits softly. "Though not hers, fortunately."

"Yeah. Good thing, huh? Otherwise we'd all be dying in our sleep."

Nikki shivers. "Don't say that, Mac. Not even in jest."

"Sorry." He reaches over, lightly caressing his niece's pale cheek.

"Should you be doing that? Won't it disturb her sleep?"

"Nah. Morgan said it was okay, helps reinforce our link if I do it from time to time." He looks down at her fondly. "She's a great kid, isn't she? So brave."

"Takes after her uncle that way." Nikki stands on the opposite side of the bed. Soft, slow beeps from another monitor nearby indicate the teenager's unconscious state, steady as she goes. "She's been good for you, Mac. She really has."

"I know. Wish I could do more for her, though."

"You're doing enough, just by being here. I'm sure of it."

It's a strangely intimate moment they share, gazing down together at Becky's sleeping form. Almost like she was their own child.

Nikki realizes there's something she's been meaning to tell him for a while. Though she's almost afraid to say it out loud, lest the moment be ruined.

Risks a look over at Dalton. Still sound asleep.

Well. No time like the present.

"MacGyver?"

"Hmm?"

"You know I've rather come to like being a surrogate aunt for Becky, and there have been times..."

"...Yeah?" His gaze meets hers. There's a slightly inquiring tease in his eyes, a lift of the chin just so, giving her the strangest sense of déjà vu.

"Well, I've been wondering if we ought to..."

A particularly loud snore breaks the tender moment. Jack Dalton really has incredible timing sometimes, even when he's asleep.

Mac shakes his head, gently adjusts his position (slumped halfway off a chair); the pilot coughs a bit, and the snoring stops.

"Huh? Wha- everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine," Mac promises, with a smile. "Why don't you go to bed already? You'd be more comfortable."

"Cos the beds are in the next room," Jack says, with a yawn. "And I'd rather stay put here."

"You won't be any good to Becky, if you're too sleepy to focus. The doctors were pretty clear on that part."

"Oh, so? At least I've had some, which is more than you two can say-"

"Hush," Nikki interrupts as the monitor flickers to life. "Something's happening."

"REM stage initiated," Dr. Morgan quietly announces from the other side of the two-way mirror. "Breakthrough to Parabolan space achieved."

"She's done it, by god," a technician murmurs. "Here we go."

The pictures are distorted, and the sound levels worse. MacGyver chafes; it's a visible effort for him to not try to adjust the machinery, despite Lakshmi's stern discouragement.

Still, the scene's more or less clear once it resolves itself. Becky, Murdoc, a chess set…

"Why does it keep shifting like that?" MacGyver says, in a low voice. "Like the point of view keeps changing position- this is confusing."

"You reckon? It's just a simple two camera setup," Jack points out.

"I know, but- why would a dream look like this, huh?"

"Because both Murdoc and Becky have watched television. Shut up, both of you," Nikki says. "Let's listen."

* * *

"I'd almost rather we hadn't," MacGyver says, afterwards. "Murdoc's in love with me? Seriously? All this fuss over trying to court me. He's not even my type, for crying out loud." He looks distinctly green about the gills.

Jack shoots Nikki an is-he-for-real look; for once, she can't help reciprocating. "A net boon, on the whole. Do you know how many times you'd be dead by now, if the man wasn't pulling his punches?"

"I never liked to think about it. Too many, I suppose- but couldn't he have just said so?"

"Cupid statue," Jack says, to nobody in particular.

"Huh?"

"Just sayin', Mac, it was kinda obvious. What with that spread he laid out for you in the apartment."

Mac snorts. "And that thing with the crossbow was his way of showing affection. Don't know whether to be flattered or disgusted." He considers. "Yeah. Definitely disgusted."

"Look at it this way, you're clearly getting off easy, compared to me," Jack says, frowning. "I mean, you and me in a relationship? No offense meant, but seriously? What kinda version of me doesn't like girls?"

"That's what you got out of that conversation?" MacGyver asks, in sheer incredulity. "Not uh-oh, Murdoc might be wantonly messing around with different realities just to suit his own ends. Not huh, Allison might have sacrificed her own daughter to stop Murdoc. Just some sarcasm and gay panic?"

"Eh," Jack says, with a shrug. "We know how Murdoc loves his evil plans, and I don't think Becky needs that much encouragement to look after her favourite uncle. But I know what my mind is supposed to feel like, you know? I spend a lot of time in there."

Nikki rolls her eyes. "I suspect it's impossible to construct a reality where you don't swing both ways, Dalton."

"Mmm. Point."

"I wonder if Becky isn't making a mistake," she muses. "Think about it- Murdoc's been going to all this trouble to sift through dreams, or mold them or whatever he's doing, and inside of one conversation he's recruited her to do exactly the same thing."

"He's got the upper hand, is the problem," MacGyver says, with a sigh. "Whoever Murdoc learned all this dreamlore from, he clearly knows a lot more about it than any of us do. Can't mix an anti-venom if you don't even know what the poison is."

"Still. I'd have said no."

"I'm glad she didn't," Jack argues. "I mean, if there a version of me who Murdoc's been torturing up the wazoo, I'm glad Becky's around to salvage the situation. That's gonna hurt to watch."

Mac looks glum. "Worse than Wisconsin, you think?"

"God, I hope not. But with a guy like him you never know."

One of these days, Nikki thinks, she'll have to inquire into Dalton's childhood. Though she already has a sinking feeling she won't like the answer.

"I know that Becky asked for you to be on the duty roster, but if you feel like you can't handle it at any point, let one of us know, okay? Nikki and I can take up the slack."

"Are you kidding? If Murdoc can make this real, and it sounds like he's working on it, I'm gonna be in all kinds of trouble. Have some faith in my self-preservation instinct, old buddy."

"With those rickety planes you fly? I wouldn't put a lot of trust in that- you think that's what he wants? To draw his perfect reality into existence?"

"Let's put it this way. I sure can't see the point if he isn't. We already know the guy will risk anything to get what he wants. No surprise he'd think of offering me up as a sacrifice in the process."

"Nice cheerful thought, that," Nikki says dryly.

The scene on the monitor shifts, to the inside of a cafe. Wooden walls and floors, black wrought iron tables and chairs along with booths lining the walls. A warm and cozy atmosphere.

MacGyver blanches. Even Jack looks a a bit stricken.

"What's wrong?"

"That's my grandmother's cafe, in Mission City. Where Allison and I grew up. But what the heck am I doing behind the counter?"

"Serving coffee to the locals, looks like," Jack comments.

"Yeah, but why? Haven't been in there since Mom died and we sold the place."

"This must be one of those multiple realities mentioned in the briefing, Mac," Nikki observes. "Where something in your past changed, and you remained in Minnesota for good."

"Can't understand why I would, though. I always wanted to travel as a kid; must be some reason to make me stay put."

Becky's point of view keeps shifting, as she does some investigating. Even Nikki has to admit her techniques are improving. Might make a good spy one day. (Though technically being invisible does make it easier, she supposes.)

Her reconnaissance reveals certain awkward facts.

"The nerve of Murdoc," Jack finally grumbles, "changing everything just to suit him, as if it were some experiment. I mean, look at that. You behind the counter, no college, failed inventor, and divorced from your high school sweetheart, to boot. Me an ex-con, driving a beat-up taxi with no plane, living in a trailer. And what's Penny even doing, carrying on in community theatre? She wasn't in Mission City back then."

"Beats me. At least a version of Becky's there." Mac points to her coming in from the backyard, all cheerful and industrious. She sets a basket of eggs on the counter as the other Mac comes close for a cuddle. "And they've got each other. Can't be all that bad for an alternative, right?"

The cafe door opens, Murdoc breezes in. Makes himself entirely too comfortable at the counter. Mac approaches with a cup and pot of tea, a warm smile of greeting on his face. As if for a close friend, or even a would-be lover.

"You were saying, old buddy?" the pilot finally ventures after a moment's stunned silence.

MacGyver's got that green-around-the-gills look again. "Let me get back to you on that."

Hurried, almost blurred images fill the screen. Becky skipping forward in time, sort of like putting a video on fast-forward.

Then it stops, focusing on a pair of small feminine hands using a red-handled pocketknife ( _For B, with love from M_ clearly visible on the handle), working on something underneath a moving aerial tramway car.

"What's she doing up there? She hates heights."

"Defusing a bomb, looks like," Nikki replies.

Once the device is loosened it explodes five seconds later, fortunately a long way beneath her dangling feet.

Dalton gives a low whistle. "Sure looks like that version of Becky's more like you here, Mac. Kinda ironic, isn't it? You think Allison ever encountered anything this crazy in Parabola, when she was working on Cosmogone?"

"You gotta wonder, Jack," MacGyver chuckles, then sobers. "Whatever it was must've been pretty dangerous though, for her to prepare Becky the way she did. I hope she knew what she was doing."

Nikki hopes so too. She's heard of mother's intuition, but this is completely unlike anything she's ever heard of before.

What did Allison Grahme see among the infinite possibilities of Parabola, that made her fear so much for her daughter's safety?


	17. Hand of fate

June, 1986.

 _You're never going to see her again._

There are times Allison Grahme wishes she'd never heard of Parabola.

Never become a psychological researcher, turning an idle summer's curiosity about paradoxical sleep into her life's work. Never gone to university, to sate her curiosity on all things of the mind and heart. Never left the safe confines of Mission City, where her mother and father and brother would all have promised her that nightmares are nonsense, that will always go away when you wake up.

Never grown up, in short.

There's months to go yet- necessary, frantic months, when she'll cram all she can into her last fragments of life- but this is the last time she can pretend everything will be okay. Because there are patterns in her dreamweaving now, patterns she can interpret far too well- and there isn't a single one where she survives. Not one. Nor will her husband, or her son.

Only her daughter will be left to carry on the legacy all unawares, until the time is right.

 _There's a price to playing with dreams._

For a long time, she had sought and wandered and craved, through worlds of impossible mountains and upside-down seas, regretting nothing except the silly Cold War paranoia that stopped her sharing these glories with her family. (How would Michael have taken it? What would Angus have made of her discoveries? She'll never find out, now.)

Kinder than she'd known. Kinder than the staffers on Project Cosmogone know, or ever will. Far kinder than those ostensibly in charge, who expect short-term profits without considering long-range consequences. She's burnt her notes, written up misleading articles with falsified graphs. (Once upon a time, lying about research results would have struck her as the mortal sin _par excellence:_ now it's hardly worth a mention _._ ) Setting the field back a century or more. Longer, if she's lucky. Nobody should have to live the way she does now.

"Are we almost done?" Becky asks, leaning against her bedroom wall. "I mean, we've been at it for ages."

A certain measure of teenaged boredom in her tone, and understandably so. Allison's aware she's being ridiculous. Packing up bags and bags worth of clothes and treats and loving handwritten notes, which Chris snickers at whenever she calls him in to sit on a brimming suitcase.

Her firstborn baby, and there's nothing she can do to save him. Too old, too skeptical. He takes after Michael, after Mac. Level-headed to a fault. Would've had an exceptional career in the Navy.

Nothing like her second child with her elaborate imagination, a clear sign of a lucid dreamer.

 _If you'd been more like them, you'd have been spared all this._

"I want you to have everything you'll need," she says, hugging her daughter close. Becky submits, mostly patiently- she always has loved a quality cuddle. Ducks out of the room as soon as she can, though.

Allison stands irresolute for a little while. Tempting, very tempting to go grab her and spend every remaining moment together- but Becky is a perceptive little creature. All these preparations will be in vain, if her daughter recognises what's happening and strikes up a protest. If she insists on staying home.

(Though that's not likely, judging by the way her face has been lighting up when she talks about the summer. A dream vacation with her most favorite person in the whole world. How could she want to stay home?)

One slim, silver-coloured lifeline to save her, spun out of the very moment her brother first held his infant niece in his arms. Twinning souls through Parabolan space is a delicate process, subtle reinforcements and adjustments made after quietly observing their interactions over the years (she's not a scientist for nothing). Covertly enhancing their connection by encouraging his participation in her daydreams. Gentle subliminal messages in her bedtime stories and lullabies.

A clever knight protecting his princess, the brave princess protecting the knight in return. _Animus_ and _anima_ , an image of each in the other, following Jung's theory of archetypes in the collective unconscious.

So long as her brother manages to stay alive, the bond will remain intact. With his combination of luck and talent, it's fairly likely. Mac's lifestyle carries a high chance of Becky either getting kidnapped by foreign agents or getting bored to death by chemistry lectures, but nothing quite as bad as _this._

Or so she fervently hopes.

Hands shaking, she tucks a loose-leaf notebook into an overburdened backpack. Her cooking's a family joke. Maybe this'll make Becky laugh, one of these days. But there's a certain recipe included- along with a letter- that'll help her daughter reach her full potential as a lucid dreamer, if ever she needs it.

 _I ought to warn her. Tell her what can happen._

No point. No guarantees that what's happened to her will happen to Becky ( _for her sake, I hope not!_ ) Besides, she's laid her work well ( _across the span of fourteen summers, paradoxical time_ ). No chance of troubled dreams and undone serenity. Not unless something so terrible comes roaring through her nightmares, that its consequences could reach into the waking world. Or someone finds a way to replicate her research.

Something Allison doesn't even want to imagine, but has.

The doorbell rings. Her heart stops.

 _You're never going to see him again, either._

 _Your dear, loving little brother. Who wouldn't believe a word of this if you swore it to him on a stack of bibles._

She offers Mac banana pancakes, after a long flight; burns the first and undercooks the second and the third collapses as she flips it, so he takes over, laughing. After Becky goes to bed they swap stories, they cuddle. Almost like childhood again.

Next morning, she almost blurts out the whole story before he spirits her daughter off, and he doesn't even notice. Bless him, too bad he couldn't have stayed longer.

But once Michael and Chris are off to summer camp the house is empty; she can get to work at last.

 _August 23._

Terrifying to have an awareness of the day one dies. But the patterns were clear; the three of them do not live to see summer's end.

So little time left, now.

By the day of the accident months later she's calmly accepted her fate. Done all she can to prepare Mac and Becky for what lies ahead; the rest is in their hands. And minds, and hearts.

 _Dear, sweet brother. Beloved daughter. Until we meet again on that far distant shore. Farewell._


	18. Interlude 4: Autumn waning

_For the Gentle Reader's benefit: it might be a good idea to go have a look at "Hey Diddle Diddle", over in the Second Chances 'verse. Which explains Jack's tangled relationship with his Uncle Nelson (who he doesn't like), his Uncle Charlie (who he does like, but has an unfortunate habit of landing up in jail), and exactly how a Texan ended up in Minnesota anyway._

* * *

Ellen Margaret MacGyver, née Jackson. A strong-willed woman no matter the reality.

"This whole country," her father had once told her, "used to be free and open. For anyone to do just as they pleased, without any interference. Up against the bush, with your neighbours but not beholden to them..." The sentiment that Mission City was founded on (ironic, given the town's main source of income these days), and as Harry's daughter, she's always privately, secretly, wanted to test her mettle against such wilderness. Of course, it's only ever been a dream. Her mother had raised her for this placid Minnesota hometown, to take pleasure in its quiet, frivolous ways.

And enjoy herself she had, with her fairy-tale marriage and her little shop, until a car crash and the loss of James and her own mother had broken the enchantment. Turned her head, filled it with fantasies of running away, to somewhere darker and lonelier and madder.

It takes Nelson Davies- ascetic, and consumed with inner fire, filled with a saint's anger and a saint's passion- to tell her that it needn't stay a dream. Her father is in Alaska. Land up there is cheap. Nothing to hold them back, except herself. Her children will feel the same way; they're a tight-knit family, always have been. If less so, since the crash; and one of her expectations is that the trip will bring them closer together again.

Well, there is one other matter. She catches Jack next afternoon, when he comes moping into the shop (nobody wants to play with him, it seems; but then, what else could an out-of-towner expect?)

"Any chance that Mac wants to go fishing or something?"

"He's helping his sister pack, I'm afraid. Would you like some chocolate cake? Can't bring it with us."

"Glad to!"

He wolfs it down as if he expects it to disappear. She plies him with more, and quizzes him about his future plans; town rumour has it that after being unofficially adopted by Ruth and David Forrester (absolute ingratitude, running away like that from his Uncle Nelson, and why the Forresters have indulged him is beyond her), Jack's not even planning to stay with them, either. Not an affectionate person, from the sound of things.

But she has to know for sure.

"So, you don't love your foster parents enough to stay with them?" she asks, cutting him another helping.

Jack eyes a third slice, uncertainly, but attacks it with a sort of determined resolution. "Don't get me wrong, they're nice folks. Only my Uncle Charlie- well, he'll be by to collect me one of these days, so of course I'll go with him. They understand that."

"Even though he's a repeat felon."

"I didn't say that," Jack says, scraping icing off the plate. "But so what if he is? He looks after me pretty well, when he's not doing time."

That settles that; the child's got no moral compass whatsoever. She offers him another tart lemonade; he gulps it down gratefully, yawns. "Honestly- thanks for the cake, but I think I'd better be getting along home now. I'm sorta awfully sleepy."

"You can lie down in one of the booths, if you like. The cafe's never very busy this time of day."

"No. I mean, thanks, but- I gotta get home," Jack protests, a very unfocused look in his eyes. "I mean, you can't sleep just anywhere. Has to be somewhere safe."

"Don't you think this is safe?"

He doesn't reply, just slides off his chair and makes for the door. Actually stumbles outside for a few steps, before fainting away; she picks up the child and carries him back in. Heavy little thing for his size.

"Nelson's right about your greediness. Those sleeping drugs wouldn't have worked, if you'd confined yourself to a sensible serving," Ellen says aloud. He doesn't even stir. Won't until they're deep into Canada, with any luck.

"Sweet dreams," she says, with as much tenderness as she can muster.

It seems apt enough.


	19. North

Switching between locations is absurdly easy in Parabola. No planes, trains or automobiles, unless required by a dreamer. No magic portals or rifts in the time-space continuum, either. One minute here, next minute there.

Becky snaps her fingers, and wonders whether her shift will even be perceptible to any onlookers. (Is that TV scanner working? She won't know until she wakes.) Same place, after all. Mission City doesn't seem to change much.

Only, this town's in a whole different reality.

"Has to be better than the last one," she mutters to herself, hiking up an almost imperceptible gradient towards the Chrysanthemum Cafe. "Why couldn't I help him more? I should have been able to, I was coping just fine."

Food for thought, actually. A version of herself brave enough to play the Great Game, with no killing, no guns, and no end of duck tape. The role reversal's amusing in an ironic fashion, if nothing else. But her beloved hero uncle broken by circumstance, ground down and pitiable with only a buried streak of white-hot viciousness to sustain his sad life as a barista...that'd been hard to watch. Easy pickings for a certain assassin, turning him into a cold-blooded killer.

A partner in bed and in the field, Murdoc boasted; but he'd found it. So why keep experimenting? Then there's the bizarre three-way relationship between them and Jack, which she can't even begin to figure out...or maybe there's her explanation, come to think of it. Something to consider later: the cafe lies before her. Safely shut and locked, as it's midnight, but walls aren't much barrier in dreams.

Becky doesn't remember the coffee shop much, having only visited a couple times when very young. It was sold after Grandma Ellen died, as neither of her children wanted to carry on the family business; they were living far more interesting lives by that point. One thing she does recall is the hot chocolate her grandma made, so rich and decadent. Uncle Mac still brews it the same way, though she has yet to learn the knack herself.

"Hey," she says out loud. "If you're listening, Unc, how about teaching me that hot chocolate brew you're so good at? Might be fun."

If he hears her, great. If not, well, even just making the effort has cheered her slightly.

Meantime, down to business.

* * *

Still night, when she's finished accomplishing a bit of recon. Parabolan time is relative, it'd seem. She's getting better at finding sympathetic minds to shuffle through: Ruth Forrester, her sister Audrey (mother of the Yates twins, Carla and Roxy) and even Jack's Uncle Charlie- and though the story's not as clear as she'd like, she knows enough.

Ellen MacGyver's with Nelson Davies, of all people, moving up north to join Harry in Alaska. The same Nelson who was harrowing his nephew Jack to death, back in Wisconsin. A strict, fanatical tyrant of a man. Makes her grateful a hundred times over for the warm loving good life she has with the best uncle in the world.

Things are already bad. Jack's terrified, Allison's upset, MacGyver questioning. Ellen's apparently oblivious to the children's suffering. Nelson's thoroughly consumed by his private visions of divine judgement and hellfire. Not the way it's meant to be at all. So, this is what Murdoc meant by disaster; a version of Mac who survived this upbringing probably wouldn't be to his taste. Or hers.

Well, she promised to do what she could to fix it, and like her uncle she believes in keeping her word. Even to the likes of Murdoc.

Dreams seem the natural recourse. But who to contact first?

Nelson? No way. Too toxic.

Allison? The boys? Ellen?

Ellen, Becky tells herself. She's one who can nip this in the bed, keep the timeline on a safe and certain track. No point interfering more than can be helped.

As tempted as she is by the other options…

* * *

Mighty funny dreams she's been having, these last few nights. Her granddaughter pleads with her, as they walk along the frozen lake shore. (Must be: the girl looks so much like Allison will. The way she'd looked herself, only a few years back.)

"I remember how this was supposed to go. Angus told you how cruelly Nelson has treated Jack, and you threw him out on his ear. This time it's different. Why?"

"Forgiveness, perhaps. Second chances?"

"You already gave him that, after the church sermon."

"Anybody," Ellen says (dry as her godchild from the Stuart family, her namesake) "can be goaded to their breaking point, under the right circumstances. For instance," she says, and the scene changes to her son- blind with fury and righteous anger- being talked down from breaking the habit of a lifetime and firing a gun. "Your memory, I think?"

Becky winces, and restores the Minnesota landscape. "This isn't supposed to go both ways. I definitely need more practice."

"I'm not quite sure you ought to be here at all."

"I feel like I have to help, where I can. That's something I've learned from both your children, you know...they're why I'm here. They won't tell you as much, but they'll hate going. Allison hates the cold, and Mac will miss his workshop. Needs it. It starts him on the path to so much more."

"I've run my life for the sake of my family, and my friends, and most particularly my children. Perhaps it's time that I went ahead and lived for myself, for a change?"

"This is going to be more complicated than I thought," Becky says. "I hoped it'd just be a matter of encouraging you not to listen to Nelson Davies. But if you're wanting it, too..."

"Child, I'm Harry Jackson's daughter. Do you think I'm as malleable as all that?"

Her granddaughter sighs. "It would've made things so much easier. In your heart, you must know Nelson won't be a good stepfather to your children, much less poor Jack. For their sake I hope you aren't too blinded by love and a desire for something different to realise that, before it's too late."

"A little suffering's good for the soul, as my father used to say."

"Especially when it's somebody else doing the suffering, huh?"

"None of that sass with me, young lady," Ellen says sternly. "I know what's best for my children."

Becky's instantly contrite. "Sorry, ma'am."

The teenager's arms come around her in an impulsive hug. Ellen allows it, even encourages it. Blood's thicker than water, after all.

For a little while: but she's beginning to wake to the morning now, is realising just how absurd this conversation is. Fancy seeing your own granddaughter in a dream- it's probably just a misplaced sense of guilt, for delicate Ruth's tears and sentimentality. But then, the woman had no business taking Jack away from his uncle in the first place.

"I need to be going now. So good to see you again after all these years, Grandma. Just think about what I've said, all right?"

"It's too late now, anyway," Ellen says. "I've sold my shop, bought a truck to drive north. Taken Jack Dalton away from those child-stealing Forresters- now that's not the sort of thing you go back from."

"You kidnapped him?"

"Sleeping soundly in the basement, and he won't wake up until we're long out of Mission City. And," Ellen adds, quite firmly, "if you asked me whether I'd do it all again, I would."

Becky sighs. "So much for trying to short-circuit Murdoc...now, he's going to cause so much trouble for the family in future."

"In what way?" Ellen's always keenly alert, for anything that might threaten her family.

But the alarm bursts into life, and Ellen wakes to the cold, clear Minnesota dawn with nothing but a sense of quiet purpose. Starts the few last preparations for their departure. With any luck, they'll make the border before nightfall.

Points north. Adventure. A frisson of excitement, every time she thinks of it.

(And if she knows her children, they'll love that just as much as she does.)

* * *

Allison glances around the cafe. Same weird mix of booths and ironmongery as usual. Boring place, she's always secretly thought. She agrees with enthusiastic young Mike about Mission City, very much so.

She taps her fingers on the table, impatiently. If she could remember just who it is she's supposed to be meeting, perhaps she wouldn't mind so much-

* * *

Metaphors are reality, in Parabola. Becky grabs up a remote- nothing '60s about it, this is the one Unc uses to turn up the volume for his favourite Westerns- and stops the scene. Just to stare, at that too-familiar figure.

Not her real mother, of course. Not the right age- younger than her, for goodness sake. Not the same person at all- and yet it is.

"I'm gonna have to come back to this one," she promises. "When I'm more sure of myself. Confident enough to convince you. Brave enough to make you proud."

Becky wipes away a tear, and goes for comfort to the one person who's always made her feel better. Mac.

(Unfair, of course, but he's never died on her yet.)

* * *

...and winds up on a houseboat. Eerily similar to the one Jack had bought himself, around the time of the Kimbala affair; that's a weird coincidence. Cozy enough, she supposes, all warm wood and everything tucked away, within easy reach. A spiral staircase leading upstairs to a sleeping loft. The sort of place Uncle Mac might live in, if he hadn't been saddled with her.

But enough speculating for now. "Maybe this just isn't working," Becky says to the room at large. "Whose idea was this, anyway? Because it sure wasn't mine."

She doesn't want to be on a houseboat, especially not one that happens to be in the middle of the Los Angeles harbour. It's making her more than a little seasick.

"I like it." An eleven-year-old boy smiles at her, a lock of brown hair falling onto his forehead. Her uncle's voice, recognisable even before breaking. "Hi, Becky."

"You recognize me?"

"Sure do. Allison's daughter- or will be, anyway." A lopsided grin. "I'm gonna be an uncle someday. It's cool. Though also kinda weird at the same time- I mean, imagining my sister all grown up, married with kids."

"I had all these great ideas about looking after you," Becky says. "Try to stick my oar in, make things better in here the way he does out there- the way you do- um, will do? Tenses are confusing."

"You sound like Jack on champagne," Mac tells her. "No, actually, he was making even less sense. But it's close."

"Yeah. Well...I dunno. I'm not really getting anything done. Ellen's not listening to me."

"I'm listening."

"Of course you are, Unc," she says with a grin. "We've got a special connection. I'll be blunt, I'm worried about you guys. Jack's Uncle Nelson is bad news; you three need to get away from him before something awful happens."

"How d'you know it will?"

"Call it a gut feeling. Your mom may think the world of him right now, but he's not a nice man. Deep inside you know it's true, even though you keep hoping otherwise."

He considers. "I'd need better evidence for it than a weird dream about a neat floating house in California and a niece from my future. Mom thinks that playing pioneers is awesome. And I..." Mac smiles, almost embarrassed. "I do too."

"Without your workshop? Nobody to talk to? Not even any school to go to?"

"Okay, I'll miss the workshop, but there'll be so much else to do! Mom's promised to buy a team of huskies to look after, and I can see my grandpa Harry again, and explore a whole new state- and we have lots of craft books and carpentry guides and stuff, I could teach myself how to build anything in the world. Well, anything pre-twentieth century. I bet I could spend my whole life out there."

"But this isn't what you do. You're tech-savvy, and globe-trotting, and you help people..."

"Why?"

"Because that's who you are."

"Why?"

Becky can't seem to work up a decent answer. She closes her eyes and slips out of the dream with a sigh.

* * *

It's no use. There's no way she's going to convince any of them before it's too late and this reality changes irrevocably. She just doesn't have her uncle's resourcefulness and luck to pull off a last-minute miracle. Whatever possessed her to accept Murdoc's challenge, without the slightest idea of what she was really getting herself into? Clearly he expects her to fail.

Is this the proverbial horseshoe nail, that loses the kingdom along with everything else?

No. Not gonna happen. There must be some way to fix this.

"So, how's the dream-wrangling going?"

Becky's eyes fly open. Not Mission City by any stretch. A light and airy room with high whitewashed stone walls. Arching windows overlooking a blue ocean stretching out to a distant horizon. Comfortable furniture.

(Her subconscious- perhaps under her mom's lingering influence, now she thinks about it- knows what she needs. A strategic retreat within her own mind, to regroup and brainstorm since she won't let herself wake up until Murdoc's been neutralized.)

MacGyver's lazing on the couch beside her. Only it's not really him. This version she turns to in her imagination when his real self is away. Hair the color of golden honey, curling around his neck. Velvet brown eyes. Flowing silk shirt, a blue that perfectly sets off golden tanned skin, tucked into trousers of caramel-hued suede leather. A tender smile full of understanding. A warm, laid-back Midwestern drawl soothing all fears and anxieties.

(A slightly idealized version of her uncle. But not that much, really.)

"Not that well. Ellen seems real excited about going, and I don't even know what to say to Mom, and as for you…"

"Yes?"

"This version of you's being super-stubborn about it, Unc, and I dunno where to take this next. I mean, this dream stuff's weird. I've already passed the point where anyone in the waking world can be of much help. I'm gonna have to figure this out on my own."

"You'll manage," Mac says cheerfully. "I always do."

"I'm not you."

"You're not," he agrees. "But there's no need to be. You're brave and resourceful in your own way, you know that. You can do anything you put your mind to, Becky. Don't worry. You got this."

"I know. It's just so hard, sometimes."

In reply he wraps her in a warm, safe cuddle. Her hands wander over silk and leather, through soft hair as their foreheads touch. A gentle, light kiss on the lips. She sighs, feeling a little better.

At least there's one place right now where everything makes sense. Even if it's only within her own mind.

"What do you need?" Mac murmurs, gently nuzzling her ear.

"Inspiration. How can I convince you that moving to Alaska's a really bad idea? That there's an amazing future ahead if you stayed in Mission City?"

"Well, you know how much of a skeptic I am. For me, seeing is believing most of the time."

"Showing rather than telling?"

"Yeah. Like what Ellen did, using your memories. Remember?"

Of course. Why hadn't she thought of that before?

"That gives me an idea. Thanks, Unc." Presses herself against his warmth, reveling in their closeness. Only a shadow of the real world, but it's enough to sustain her for now.

"My pleasure, sweetheart. Anytime you need me, I'm right here."

* * *

Back to the houseboat. Not her preferred choice of dream setting, but young Mac seems awfully enamored of the idea now.

"Let's watch some TV," she suggests, patting the sofa beside her. "Got something exciting to show you."

"More exciting than Westerns? They're my favorite, you know."

"Lots more. Trust me." She points the remote at the screen. Images appear. He's dodging bullets, rappelling down mountains, parachuting from planes, punching out bad guys. And, most of all, creating things on the fly to save the day.

"Hey, that's me! But older." He frowns. "I think. Funny haircut, though."

She chuckles. "That's you, all right. Once you grow up, anyway. Go to college, become knowledgeable and skilled at so many things. You'll travel all over the world, saving lives, helping people. Making a real difference."

"Cool. And you'll be there with me, right?"

"Eventually." She smiles wistfully.

"But you're saying this won't happen if we stay in Alaska, right? That means Allison won't marry your dad, so you won't exist either."

Even as a kid he catches on quick. "Afraid not."

He chews his lip, lapses into thoughtful silence for a while. "I don't think I like that. Can I help?"

"Any way you can think of convincing your mom not to go?"

"...no. You know who might, though? Jack, maybe. I mean, if anybody can come up with a reason, it'd be him."

Becky tenses; her intuition's been steering her away from Jack, so subtly she'd not even thought of that idea. Blind spot, or something more ominous?

Then again, this is a version of her uncle... "I wonder- if I went next door to his dream, would you hold this lifeline for me? Pull me back if I get into trouble."

"You sure he wants you in there?"

"If it's anything like I'm dreading, he'll need all the help he can get."

She loops a winding of silver yarn about his waist, feeling decidedly strange. It's one thing joking about a special connection; it's another entirely to be holding it in her own hands. Looks so delicate and slight, visualised like this.

Still, it's never let them down yet. "Three quick tugs means it's an emergency."

"Just like in Scout training," MacGyver declares. He nods up at her with earnest readiness. "Ready whenever you are."

So, now she has to go.

Drat it.

* * *

Becky centers herself and closes her eyes. Slipping into Jack's mind just like she did with his older counterpart. Maybe, maybe it won't be so bad for him as Murdoc had hinted. Ellen's a good woman, after all. Must be, the way Allison and Mac had turned out.

Of course, that was in her own reality...

* * *

Opening them again. Snow, gleaming in the starlight. A fresh clean layer of white. _That's pretty._

The last sensible observation she has a chance to make, for a while- because it turns out that being Jack Dalton, just now, _hurts_. Tags of old nightmares crumpling up against terrors from the future, a sickening disorientation triggered by the slightest movement. So confused that he can't tell if he's asleep or awake -is this Alaska real or dreamed?

 _Of course I'm awake, I've gotta be._

He tosses back the bedclothes, barely pausing to pull on a familiar, too-big jacket before pulling up the window. Flumps out in the drifts, starts gulping down surreptitious handfuls of snow. Crunchy and solid in his mouth, if so cold it burns- if he can swallow enough, maybe it'll fill the hole inside him. Quell that hungry ache.

 _I have to be awake, or else I'm not getting anything real- and I've got to have something, I'm so empty._

Somebody's footsteps come shattering through the snow behind him; he ignores it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"What are you doing?"

"Eating," he says, between mouthfuls. Kinda should have been obvious, shouldn't it? Then again, he's amazed by how cold this is making him.

"Please stop," Mac pleads, kneeling down besides him. "Look. Look, I'll get you some food, promise, but stop hurting yourself."

"How soon?" he asks. Winces, at the unpleasant hysteria in his voice (such an obvious tell, Uncle Charlie would have said. He misses his uncle terribly.) "Now?"

"Um-" Mac sticks his hand in his pocket, comes out with two peppermints. "Suck on these. Don't swallow, it won't do you as much good that way."

That calms him.

Mac's soft voice, as they go back into the house, helps too. The good feeling of warmth, after he's changed out of his wet clothes and dived back under the blankets. But really, a lot of it is just the sugar rush, going straight to his head and making him a little giddy. Peppermint's not a favourite of his, but right now it tastes like heaven.

(Becky, struggling back into coherency, finds herself frantically hoping that this really is just a dream. A bad one.)

"This diet's really not doing you any favours."

"Tell me something I don't know," Jack mumbles, somewhat indistinctly. "I mean, Nelson oughta know. Short and stocky and heavy-set is just normal for a Dalton, look at my Uncle Charlie- did you have anything besides peppermints?"

"Sure," Mac says. "I promised, didn't I? But you need to get warmed up first."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Always angling for a cuddle, aren't you? Sheesh. Fine, I'll shove over."

"C'mon," Mac says, unhappily. "I miss Allison hugging me all the time. Even Mom hardly touches me, these days."

"I know. 's okay."

(He doesn't really mind, Becky can tell; the comfort-loving kid likes a warm cosy bed. She finds both of them calming down, at Mac's familiar, cheerful touch.)

"Jack, d'you mind if I tell you something really dumb?"

"That's kinda my job- but go on. What is it?"

"You know that old joke about the guy who's gone mad and thinks he's a chicken, and somebody asks his family why they don't do something about it, and they say, well we need the eggs?"

"Sure, I was telling that one at carnivals when I was six. So what, you're a chicken?"

"That'd be silly. I never heard of a chicken laying chocolate cake," Mac says, handing over a heavy foil-wrapped package. "I was gonna save this for breakfast, but the way your stomach's growling, I guess you need it now."

Jack blushes, but doesn't stop to ask questions until he's finished every last crumb. Hot, fresh-baked, oozing chocolate chunks and pecans and sprinkles. Just what he needs after a skimpy dinner and a less-than-adequate breakfast.

(Becky finds herself almost unnerved, by the wave of contentment washing over her. Her own state of mind is based far too heavily on Jack's, right now; she has to figure out how to not get so entangled again. Suppose she ended up in Murdoc's head, one of these days? This could be terrifically dangerous- though at least next time, she'll be forewarned.)

"Where'd it come from?" he asks, with sleepy pleasure.

"Would you believe Mission City?"

"Huh? But this is fresh-baked."

"I know. I said it was crazy- but I was having this dream," Mac says, snuggling close. "I was out walking, in the snow, and everything was so cold- but I knew I had to keep moving."

(He's shivering, a little; moved by an irresistible impulse, Becky tries to reach out to comfort him. Jack's the one who moves, of course, though in his rapturous state he doesn't seem to notice anything peculiar. Yeesh- it's so hard willing herself not to react!)

"So what happened?" he asks.

"I got stuck. So I started building an igloo- actually, I don't think I was doing it properly, but this was a dream- but then it turned into a tunnel, and I showed up back in Mission City. By the lumber mill."

"The one that's supposed to be haunted?"

"Yesterday, I would have told you there was no such thing. Today," MacGyver murmurs, "well, I dunno about that. I was walking through, but I couldn't feel anything, and nobody could see or hear me- it was the scariest thing. It was like being a ghost."

Jack doesn't need any prompting now, to hold his friend protectively. "Sounds as bad as any of my nightmares."

"Oh, it got better. Ellen saw me, and- well, I don't really know why her, but it was just the biggest relief in the world. Being able to touch again- she told me how she'd been crying ever since we disappeared. And I told her how much you wanted to be home again."

"What, like you don't?"

"I don't seem to mind Alaska as much as you or Allison," MacGyver says, thoughtfully. "At least, I thought I wouldn't…"

Struck by a sudden concept, Becky wrenches herself out of Jack's viewpoint with a lurch. Finds herself sprawled in a heap, outside in the snow. There's very little difference to her whether she's walking through somebody else's dreams or their reality, when both feel the same to her- maybe she can't necessarily tell what's what.

But somebody else might be able to. She gives her lifeline three quick tugs. _Am I awake, or asleep? Or rather, can you tell if Jack is?_

 _Both? I think it's both at once._

Prophetic dreams? Interesting.

Mac's voice floats through the open window. "So we did some experiments, just to see what would happen. Me trying to pick things up and put them down, and so forth. Turns out that the only things I could touch were things she was holding- so I asked her to go buy some cake from the bakery."

"D'you think you could do it again?" Jack asks, very eagerly now.

"Well...I dunno? Besides, she spent her whole week's allowance on it- Mr. Stuart doesn't give her that much. I don't think it'd be fair to do it again even if I could."

"So much for solving all our problems, then. I was about to get real excited...what's the news, anyway? Are Ruth and Mike okay?"

"Apparently," Mac says, yawning. "Nobody's died, or anything."

They sound relaxed now, chatty. Time to make a move.

"Jack," Becky calls. "Jack, try waking up!"

"I've been trying!" There's a crash and a yelp of pain, that makes her wince; it sounds as if Mac had gone flying during Jack's rush to the window. "I've been trying, and trying, and I can't!"

Becky stares at him, and the smears of chocolate icing on his hands. "I guess not. You've been drugged enough to sleep for a week, I reckon." Even if she went back and found Jack asleep, back at the cafe, she probably still couldn't do much.

He seems to be picking up on what she's thinking (she wishes it was just his natural hustler instinct, but no. That two-way connection is definitely going to come back to haunt her.) "Look, please don't leave me. All alone- it feels like the longer I'm stuck here, the more this is coming true."

"You're not by yourself," Mac argues. "I'm right here."

"I mean somebody real," Jack pleads. "Like her- I dunno who she is, but she's real. You're not, I'm making you up just so I won't hafta be alone."

"Maybe he can be," Becky says slowly. She ties her silver threads about Mac's wrist, watches with a pang as the connection snaps and shimmers between the two boys. Of course, it's only an echo- her own uncle is safe and sound- but a sense of irrevocable loss twinges at her heart, and she doesn't even know why.

But it'll protect them both, for now. "Keep him company, okay? Make sure he doesn't have any more nightmares," she tells Mac.

"Sure thing," he promises. "But honestly, it's four in the morning. I need to get some sleep tonight, I really do."

"Especially at the hour that Nelson's gonna wake us up," Jack agrees. "Okay."

They drop off almost immediately, soothed into a quiescent slumber. Becky slips back to the cafe, with a sense of relief. Her uncle's very good at keeping people safe.

And she hasn't the slightest doubt, now. There is no way she can let the two of them be dragged off to Alaska.

But it never did do any good, talking to Mom without being on firm footing.

* * *

Allison taps her fingers on the table, impatiently. "Do I know you?"

"You're remembering in the wrong direction," the girl sitting opposite her says. Petite, eyes as blue as her own, though behind glasses. Shoulder-length hair nearly the same shade of auburn. "Try the other way."

"The other way?"

"Future, instead of past. Just try it..."

"Becky!"

Her daughter, her precious baby, her child- she hugs her, in a grateful amazed cuddle. "Becky, what- how- "

"No, you really are fourteen," Becky says, rubbing at her eyes a little. "I just wanted you to feel safe, have a taste of how amazing you're going to be, before we got started. It's gonna be a tough job. Because I'm not around yet, and somebody's got to look after- after Angus," she says, a touch awkwardly. "I dunno how you can call him that, he hates that name...but never mind. You can't go to Alaska. It won't be safe for any of you, once you're in Davies' hands. He's a cruel man, you already know that. There's no redemption for him."

"I know that, but...Mom's so determined to leave," Allison falters. "I have an obligation to protect her from him, if nothing else."

"It's not your job to protect her. But your little brother needs you more. And so does Jack- he's putting up such a brave front for Mac's sake, but he's scared stiff and with good reason."

"At least I know they can live, there," Allison says, trembling. "If I- if I take Jack and Mac away, and I can't care for them properly, that'll be worse."

"But it won't just be you," Becky says softly, her eyes alight with interest. "You've been thinking hard about this, haven't you? If you're old enough, smart enough...if your hometown will help."

"If I'm brave enough," Allison admits. "It's a lot of responsibility, you know that."

"I'll promise you this. You're going to be the best mother, ever."

"Don't I train you out of hyperbole?" She looks hard at her daughter, tasting patterns. There's nothing for her, in Alaska; not her psychology, or marriage or a pretty home in the Pacific Northwest. If she stays here in Mission City...there might be a path to what she craves. With hard work and a lot of good luck.

"Don't give up hoping, not ever."

"Okay, Beck. I won't..."

Becky. Her daughter.

In one corner of her mind, she cannot wait to get down to analysing this bonkers dream.

"Am I going to see you again?"

"Maybe," Becky says, with a smile. "This is new to me, too. And I get the feeling, you're going to need plenty of help..."

"I think so," Allison says, as she wakes. Shivering, lifting away her bedroom curtains, a long gaze out the window, to what's left of the woods around Parker Hill. One last look before leaving for the godforsaken wilds of Alaska.

Cold for early autumn. Maybe even snow, before the week's out. Before her dad died, the first snowfall meant romps, and a hot fire, and her mother making the special cocoa, the dark, bittersweet one. Today there won't be any time for that.

First snowfall of the season. Maybe it'll be lucky for them. Jack believes in luck (if any good's come out of this mess, it's been getting to know the kid, naughty and sweet temper and all). Angus just believes in preparation.

Maybe she'll compromise. Go for both...


	20. Interlude 5: Where the heart is

"Is your brother still asleep?"

"Couldn't wake him," Allison says to her mother. "I wanted to. He ought to say g'bye and all that."

"I thought I told you not to tell anyone we were leaving," Ellen says, in irritation. "It's been enough trouble keeping our departure under wraps without any of your friends showing up at this hour of the day. The whole town would come chasing after us, you know that."

She goes to open Mac's door, finds it locked.

Allison fingers the key in her pocket. "We're not coming."

"Don't be ridiculous, we've hashed this out. This is happening." The strain on her mother's face softens. "How I've looked forward to it."

"I can't let you do this to them. I promised-"

"You promised what?"

"When Dad died," she says, not brutally (though it is, she'd never meant to say this). "I promised to keep him safe, whatever happened. I'm doing that now."

She watches, as Ellen tuts in disbelief and undoes the lock with a bobby pin. _Why have we got to be such a handy family…_

Mac's not there.

"Angus MacGyver!" Her mother whirls round, turns on her. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." She doesn't. She honestly hadn't been expecting this.

"Then we'd better start looking," Ellen says, very practically. "How do you think you three would get by, hmm? Without anybody to take care of you?"

"Jack doesn't need looking after, he has Ruth and David and Mike. So it's just me and Angus, and- we'll manage. You know how handy he is, and I…" she swallows. "Audrey can't manage running a bakery and the coffee shop by herself. I'll work for her, keep the place going."

"Suppose Audrey doesn't cotton on to your fantastic schemes, young lady?"

"I've talked to her. She said that we could keep the cellar to live in, and see about renting out the top floor so we'd have some steady income to live on- see, she doesn't like the idea of us leaving Mission City. Nobody does. Ruth says that we're welcome to come by her place any time we want, and she even called up the hill to make sure we don't have any trouble with the police or anything." Because what irrepressible Betty Parker wants, she always gets.

"You told Miss Parker," Ellen says, exasperated. "Is there anybody in town who doesn't know, then?"

"Probably not…"

There's a thumping-crash sound on the stairs, the usual result of anybody unschooled trying to take them too fast. Turns out to be Nelson, less dignified than she's ever seen him. The white suit's gone, replaced by dark traveling corduroy, and he's sweating profusely.

"I don't want to know what happened to Jack," he says.

Allison and Ellen glance at each other, puzzled.

"My nephew's in the basement, with no apparent sign of a pulse. I've called an ambulance," Nelson says. "And I have no intention of being here when it arrives."

"He couldn't have," Ellen stutters. She hasn't looked that bad, Allison judges, since the funeral. Maybe not even then. "I was so careful-"

"I am not asking," Nelson says, in harsh tones. "I am leaving. Come or stay as you wish."

Her mother might have said anything, then, but Allison's not around to hear it. Instead she's throwing herself down the stairs, two at a time- maybe there's nothing she can do, but she has to know.

 _Please be all right, you're only a little kid, it's not fair for anything to happen to you-_

there he is, sprawled over the sofa arm. At a loss, Allison shakes him, presses her hand against his heart, looks for breathing-

"Hang on a minute," she says slowly. "Your pulse is fine. A little thready, maybe, but fine."

"I'd have told Nelson that if he'd stuck around long enough," her brother says sleepily. He nods at her and goes right back into a doze, holding Jack's hand tight.

She sits down to keep them company.

All through the trip to the hospital, all the way through the morning. Officer Olson is thoughtful enough to come take her statement in the room, since she refuses to leave.

"Going to see your grandfather in Alaska," he reads out from the notebook. "But it was a bit more than a visit, wasn't it? Weren't they planning to leave town for good?"

"You'd have to ask her that," Allison says, almost giggling. "To think of my mom, a fugitive from justice…" She has the funniest feeling nobody's ever going to find her. Theirs is a family that prepares for improbable contingencies like that.

Other people come by, to gawk and gossip and ponder. She even notices a few of them.

"It's a miracle he's in as good condition as he is," a doctor says to Ruth. "With the drugs pumped into his system, he should have gone into cardiac arrest. I have to warn you, he's not likely to have a very strong heart after this."

"We'll have something else in common," Ruth says, looking fondly down at her foster child. "At least I'll know how to take care of him."

"On it," Mac says from his bed in the corner. (They'd checked him out too, and found traces of the same sleeping pills, albeit at a less threatening dose.)

"On what?" Jack asks.

Allison looks back and forth from the two of them. "Did you wake up at the same time? Exactly the same time?"

"I'll verify that," Mike says. "Geez, you two, you missed all of the excitement-"

"Not just yet," Ruth intervenes. "These two need to rest."

"Mom's gone, isn't she?"

It's shaped like a question; but Mac's intonation is anything but.

"She is," Allison confirms. She'd never forgive him for not telling her, if it was the other way around.

Jack makes a mildly strangulated sound; everybody looks towards him in concern.

"Sorry," he says, coughing. "Only it doesn't seem fair, that I have a mom and you don't."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Ruth says warmly. "This is Mission City. They're never going to be alone here, not ever. We'll take care of them."

"That seems like a nice cozy thought just now," Mac murmurs. "I like that."

Allison does, too; but there's one thing she feels she has to get straight first.

"I'll take care of him," she corrects. "With help, I hope."

Something dances at the edge of her mind as she says it. Almost within reach, like waking up from a dream; but it slips away. She lets it go.

After all. There's unpacking to do, and getting the shop in order (under Audrey's tutelage), and figuring out how she'll fit her studies into all the free time she's about to not have any more, and so much else to be done...it'll be the hardest thing she's ever done, maybe.

Worth it, though. For him, for Jack. For herself.

And just possibly, she thinks, imagining a woman sledding across a sunless sky, worth it for her mother too.


	21. Queen's sacrifice

The notional island is the same as Becky remembers. Dark, ill-lit, the chessboard still in place on the stone bier. The crystallized purple rose.

No sign of her opponent, however.

"Murdoc, I'm back," she calls out to the island at large. "The kids are alright, they're safe now. The whole town's looking after them."

Silence.

"Hey, come on. No well done? Not even a pat on the back? I'm crushed. You at least gotta admit I did the best I could with what I was given." She hopes it was her best, anyway.

At least the kids won't be alone. And their future?

No way of telling now. She could have skipped forward in time, see how the rest of their lives unfold. But that would mean watching her mother grow and mature into the incredible and formidable woman she once adored. And she can't have that.

Only being able to touch her mother in dreams- it hurts, in a way Becky's never felt since seeing her body in that casket, so peaceful and still. As much as it had not having her parents around, to give her advice as she grew up. Not seeing them from the stage cheering for her, at her high school graduation.

She loves her uncle dearly, grateful now more than ever for the intensity of their connection. But the absence of her mom, her dad, even her bossy older brother...it just really _hurts_ , sometimes.

"God Mom, I'd give anything to be able to see you in person again. Feel your arms around me one more time..."

The island offers no reply. Not that she was expecting any for a rhetorical statement. (Though one never knows, in Parabola...)

So what next?

In lieu of Murdoc's sarcastic advice, Becky decides to make an assessment of things.

Tastes the sixty-four winds, seeking traces of his influence. Nothing.

There's a portion of her silver cord missing, now binding young Mac and Jack in the other reality. She gives a mental tug to the remainder, feels relief when there's an answering pull back.

Something changes, out of the corner of her eye. The chessboard. Her queen piece is glowing now, much like the king did before. Another challenge.

Becky knows she ought to seek Murdoc out. But she has no idea of the assassin's master plan, lacks the confidence to follow his trail. She needs to take his full measure before going on the offensive.

And the queen is there, waiting for her.

She approaches the chessboard. Grasps the piece.

Disappears.

As does the notional island, its purpose completed.

* * *

Mission City, covered under a soft blanket of snow. December in the Midwest.

Becky emerges into the cafe, tucked away in one of the booths, and peers around. Warm and quiet, decorated in soft Christmas colours. Done with an artistic touch, if one she doesn't recognise. The scent of burning logs tries valiantly to overcome that of lutefisk, but doesn't quite succeed. She wrinkles her nose in amusement.

Two children, one dark and one blonde, glance up at her with mild interest before returning to their play. Close together, but separately. Him with scissors and a scattering of paper scraps, her with a rubber hammer and wooden pegs that she pounds industriously into flower foam.

Almost automatically, she tries to slip into their minds, looking for information, but it doesn't give her anything. Maybe they're too little.

 _Maybe you shouldn't get used to this, Becky! Sheesh. They're people, just like you._

Whatever Murdoc thinks on the subject.

Peeping over the top of the high-backed booth, she sees two people sitting in the corner by the door, all but sitting atop each other as they cuddle. Her uncle (is he home for Christmas?) with a woman she vaguely recognises; it looks like Ellen Stuart, Mac's first girlfriend. She recognises the picture from his high school yearbook.

Becky frowns a bit. Ellen, according to her uncle's rather wistful accounts, was a nice sort of girl but absurdly domestic, even asking him to stay in Minnesota. She'd never forgiven him for cutting their relationship short, to the point of trying to frame him for murder. (Unc had been a little vague about the details, but Nikki had filled her in.)

If she's here, and he's here…what happened to that eleven year-old, who was so eager to leave town and go globe-trotting?

The door slams open, and she tenses at the sound- but it's only Jack. He grins at the two adults, sidles his way between them. They chuckle and let him.

(It's a funny thing, but in all her dream-travels she's never come across a really nasty version of Jack. Maybe he's just too happy-go-lucky for that.)

"All right?" Ellen asks, in a quick, sharp voice, concern etched through her voice. "You're quite blue, I don't like that."

"Aw, you worry too much. Anybody would be blue after walking through that lot- the temperature's minus ten and dropping. We'll have a nice crisp Christmas, that's for sure."

"How'd the flight go, sweetheart?" Mac asks him, running a hand over the pilot's arm. "Sis okay?"

"Fine, fine. She's doing some shopping in the Twin Cities, said she'll rent a car and come up tomorrow."

"I hope not too late," Ellen says fondly. "I can think of two little children who'll be very disappointed, if they have to wait until Christmas to see their favourite aunt."

"Aw, we can let them stay up for once in a way," Mac says. "If she needs time, she needs time. I know I would."

"I keep telling you," Jack says intently. "There was nothing you could have done about that car crash. Any more than she could have."

"I know, but geez. You know how much Allison loved her kids. How close I was to them, too...I had the weirdest feeling I ought to call them that day, and I didn't, and I'll never forgive myself for that."

"You're irrefutably a marvel," Ellen says, gently stroking her husband, "but you aren't telepathic or omnipresent. It was just one of those things, Mac."

"I still might not believe that, however often you say it," Mac says sadly. "Nothing's been the same since they died. That feeling you get when there's something you've forgotten, I keep getting that- and it's really strong tonight. Like-"

He glances around the room, and his voice falters as it stops on her.

"Like I can see Becky right now. Guys, did I just go crazy?"

"Two against one," Jack pronounces. "How you hanging, Beck?"

"Oh my god," Mac says. Almost knocks her over, to grab her in a fierce, desirous hug.

And of course she's glad to hug her uncle back, and everything- but man oh man, has she muffed this. (She isn't supposed to be visible to people who are awake! How'd it happen?)

"Hiya, Unc," she says, a little shyly.

He faints.

"Whoops," Jack observes. "Say. Allison's going to be so glad to see you."

Well.

That one's probably true.

* * *

"So help me, Jack Dalton. If this is one of your little scams, I will cook you in a pie and serve you for Christmas dinner."

"Ellen, I wouldn't! I swear I wouldn't. Anyway- if Mac thinks it's her, it's got to be her. Right?"

Her uncle's still holding her in his sleep, dazed but looking terribly happy; and she's staying quiet. Looking like she's sleeping too, a trick she's learned from-

"Look, let's just ask her. She's not asleep, I can tell."

Oops. Busted.

"I'm not your Becky," she says quickly. "I'm- from a parallel universe. You know. Like on Star Trek."

"Like what?" Ellen asks.

"Like that episode where everybody wore leather and had evil mustaches- good grief!" Jack says, stroking his own. "I must be Evil Duplicate Jack!"

"That was a beard Spock was wearing," Becky says.

"Not in our universe. It was all evil mustache time!"

Becky blinks in confusion. "Um-"

Jack dissolves into giggles. "I'm kidding. Yeah, it was beards. So what, you've popped in to be Allison's replacement daughter? She'll love that. Real Christmas miracle and everything."

"I can't stay," she protests. "I have my own family to go back to. My own uncle," she says, waving her free hand helplessly.

"Your own mother," Ellen says understandingly.

"Well, not her. She- she died. In a car crash."

"Ours believes she killed you," Jack notes. "Swerved to avoid a logging truck on the way to the coast, wound up sliding down a steep slope, crashed at the bottom. You didn't survive, here. Neither did your brother, or your father. From the look on your face I'm guessing they're gone too, whatever reality you come from."

(Dalton's always the quickest to catch on. He reads people like Mac reads fixes.)

"Yeah," she says, helplessly.

Her mother's alive? Her fondest wish coming true? It's not possible.

"Allison has no one left," Ellen says. "She needs you. We need you."

It's meant with love and affection, she knows, but there's a touch of overbearingness- anybody who could hold Mac in Mission City has to be- and it's just a bit creepy. Time to back off.

"Not as much as I'm needed elsewhere," Becky says, and carefully detaches herself from her uncle's grasp. She needs a moment out, to get her head together. "Back in a moment."

"Where are you going?" Ellen demands.

"Uh. Bathroom."

Alone, she can switch back home. Snap of her fingers-

only it doesn't work.

Oh god. _Oh god._ Is she stuck here?

Maybe wandering into a dream without a version of her already here has entangled her? Trapped her here for good?

Becky shoves her hands into her pockets, in a usual instinctive gesture. Finds a note that she hadn't left there.

 _My dear Miss Grahme,_

 _I confess it. You're an outrageously difficult adversary, even worse than your uncle (in certain respects, at least). I simply had to do something._

 _So- here is a version of your uncle who's small-minded and inane enough to make any pacifist happy. He lives an incessantly dull life with his adorable wife and adorable boyfriend, he doesn't have the slightest desire to ever leave Mission City, and the only cloud over his life is the death of his young beloved niece and nephew in a car crash (though especially you, for some reason I cannot fathom). I trust you can take it from here- being MacGyver, he must, per force, desire you just as much as your own would. Sort it out yourselves._

 _Enjoy yourself, since you're here to stay. Say hello to your mother for me. (See, I even went to that trouble. Colour me a thoughtful assassin.)_

 _Murdoc_

"Oh, boy," Becky murmurs to herself.

This is gonna be a tough one. But hopefully without any additional fainting involved.

* * *

"I still don't understand how I could have died," she says to her uncle, as they mix cookie dough in the kitchen. Speculaas aren't Scandinavian, but Mac's apparently had a lot of time to spend on experimentation. "I mean- you get used to thinking the world revolves around you, you know? Until it doesn't."

Maybe Murdoc was thrown by it, just the way she's feeling now, the first time he saw parallel worlds without a version of himself in them. (Or perhaps in his case he might've seen it as the perfect way to infiltrate, instead.)

"Can't say as I've ever had that problem," Mac remarks, fetching out the cookie stamps. "I like living for others, I'm pretty good at it- and with a family like ours to look after, there's enough to keep me busy. Becky, tell me- that night before my mother disappeared, you were there, weren't you? The girl I dreamed about?"

"Uh-huh." She's surprised he remembers it so clearly, when her own uncle typically has no memory of his dreams. Not without her assistance, anyway.

"Then I owe you so much," Mac says. "That special connection you gave us- I swear, it's kept both of us alive. Me during the bankruptcy, him when his heart starts acting up- Jack can make fun of me all he likes, but I'm sure. There's no way I can thank you enough for giving us that."

She accepts his embrace with rather less attention than she'd normally give, brow furrowing as she concentrates. Nothing for nothing. Or everything for everything- she imagines the dreamweaving before her, vast and unknowable, with her shining silver cord hopelessly entangled in the tapestry of this reality.

Typical Murdoc- building a trap he'd never have been caught in, because it takes self-sacrifice and he has none.

"I didn't know what I was doing," she tells her uncle. "Honestly, I hadn't- um," she says, hunting for a way to change the subject. "What is it you're still doing here, anyway? What happened to globe-trotting, like I suggested?"

"Life happened," Mac remarks. "I mean, we didn't have an easy time of it. Especially not Allison. Her childhood basically ended that day, and she spent the next ten years fighting hard to keep the shop going- so when we'd finally scraped up the money for one of us to go to college, I said it ought to be her. Always had wanted to leave more than I did, and besides, I had people to look after right here in Mission City. Jack's got his good days and bad days, but he'd never be able to hold down a steady job- and Ellen didn't have anyone else to turn to, what with her father. Somebody's gotta take care of them."

"You're not- sorry or anything, are you?"

He just grins and brushes ginger spice off her nose. "Never."

* * *

"Hey, Unc. I'm still here, in this reality. I really miss you. Can't help that."

Speaking to an empty room. It's a little nuts. Becky hopes they're still watching, somewhere out there.

"But it's so nice here- better than nice. This version of you is even kinder than you are, if you can believe such a thing- so soft and sweet, and not at all disillusioned. Wrapped up in his wife and children- and Jack, too. Almost makes me feel silly. Like maybe I won't ever be enough for you, in the long run.

"Honestly, Unc, I missed them every day, you know I did. But I guess I just sort of buried a whole lot of memories when they died. Now Mom's back and I can hear her laughter, and see how proud she is of me. Let her ruffle my hair, the way she used to. The same way you do, now I think about it.

"It'd be such a temptation to stay. She needs me so much. But I know I gotta get back to you guys, somehow. I'll find a way, promise."

Not until after Christmas is over, though, Becky reflects sentimentally. It's still just ordinary autumn back there, so she won't be needed yet.

How much time actually passes in the waking world while she's dreaming? Even Dr. Beatty's never provided a clear answer on that.

Feels like an eternity, though it's only been a few hours. Decorations to put up, desserts to help bake, kids running amok underfoot, the cafe the busiest it's ever been. She'd only visited a couple times as a kid, never had a chance to see the place in its full glory. It still hardly seems enough to keep her uncle busy, but maybe it's all right.

"What are you doing, sweetheart? Talking to an empty room?"

She stops, cuddles her mother happily. She's missed that most of all. "Nothing much. Just thinking. Mom, you know I do have to go home someday."

"Please don't," Allison whispers. "My own daughter...older and braver, too. Don't leave me here alone."

"But you're not really alone," Becky says, fighting to hold back tears. Successfully, for now. "You have your brother, and your nephew and niece...and my uncle doesn't have anybody but me. If it was the other way around, you know I'd stay for you, but he needs me...I love both of you so much, you know that. And always will."

(It doesn't make a lick of difference that this woman isn't her actual mother, doesn't remember her first kite or her last sandcastle. They feel towards each other even more for their shared loss.)

"...I hate to say I understand, but I suppose I do," Allison says. "We're a fiercely loyal family, Becky."

"I know."

"So don't let him stay like that, even if he says it's better that way. Make sure he does have somebody else, in case anything ever happens to you."

She thinks of Nikki Carpenter, calm, caring, and oblivious, and can't help smiling. "I think that's already in the works. Just not yet."

"All right. I'd hate for my little brother to be left all alone."

"Hafta admit there are times that sounds appealing," Mac remarks, as he enters and collapses between them on the couch. "Sheesh, I'm tuckered out. These holidays always do take it out of me."

Becky can't resist a little gentle teasing. "My Uncle Mac could fall out of an airplane, save the world and still wake up in time to make breakfast pancakes the next day. Or at least brunch."

He shudders. "Tell him to try having kids some time. That'll slow him down quick enough...anyway, how are you two doing? Allie, I'm waiting to hear the latest Phoenix update."

"You know," Allison says wryly, "that I absolutely hate your nicknaming me."

"What goes around comes around, sis." He smirks. "C'mon, spill. How's your sweetheart Winifred getting on?"

"Winifred Cooke is not my sweetheart! Just a good researcher. Very detail-oriented. We're friends, that's all."

Mac grins at the faint blush appearing on her cheeks. "Sure, sure. A good researcher who doesn't have anything better to do for Boxing Day than fly to Minnesota, and I seriously doubt he's coming all this way just for my coffee. You know, sis, you need somebody else in your life."

"I know, I know. But I'm not ready to start looking- I haven't moved on yet."

"If you say so- but I wouldn't leave it too long. You know, marriage runs in the family."

"...I think you've spent too much time around Jack," Becky says wryly. "You're picking up his awful sense of humour."

It's odd, watching his face take on that blank, defensive look: he doesn't seem as used to it as her own uncle would be. "No way. Beck, you wouldn't believe the way we've had to fight for him- they tried to run us out of town once. Wiping blood off him one minute, punching out my own neighbours the next- Ellen was holding Celia in one hand and a hot coffee pot in the other. She threatened to throw it at whoever attacked us next, they took her at her word...oh, well, it's Christmas. You don't want to hear about any of that."

"I'm sorry," she says, gently and earnestly.

"You weren't to know," he replies. "At least, I'd hope your universe wouldn't be like that...is that too much to hope for?"

"Um..."

"Thought as much," Mac says, with a sigh. "Well, they got the picture eventually. Sort of...though business isn't that great. Guess why. Or don't," he says quickly, seeing his sister's expression. "I'm just hoping to hear some good news for a change."

(Maybe Murdoc hasn't done his homework quite as well as he'd claimed. Or maybe her uncle is just constitutionally incapable of staying out of trouble.)

"Well...the dreamers on Project Serendip have been making good progress," Allison says, staring at her. "I wonder...Beck, was your mother also a psychologist?"

"Sure."

"Because if she died mid-experiment, but you're still alive...I might have done something to you. I mean, she might have- have you noticed anything strange about your dreams?"

"That...that's how I'm here. Walking through dreams. Flicking through alternate realities, going wherever I'm needed. I know she did something to me, but I don't understand how it's happening."

"My fault," Allison murmurs. "Or somebody else's...of course, I'd have to run tests to know for sure. But it's just possible..."

"You're not making a lot of sense."

"When you were really young I opened your mind, gave you something to keep you safe," Allison says. "Just to give you the potential. Most people don't have what it takes to lucid dream- I mean, the serious kind. Something that'll register on the psychic scale, something that achieves verifiable results. You have it, Becky."

"You- I mean, my mom mentioned something like that, in a letter. She did something to me when I was younger. Established a silver cord, between me and my uncle. We have a connection through Parabolan space."

Allison nods. "To protect you, Becky. A tool you'd never even notice, unless you needed it for your own protection. Or someone you loved, I swear. Of course it didn't work for her- but your mother must have succeeded, or else you wouldn't be here."

Becky shivers. It would sure explain things, but the implications…

Mac's frowning at her. "Are you okay?"

She fumbles for an explanation. "Without asking me? That's kinda scary."

"Why would you be so afraid of this? Here, I'll tell you about the trigger-"

"Not right now," Becky implores. Draws closer to her uncle, who cuddles her. He's casually, blissfully uninterested in this whole conversation, just content to rest between the two of them.

This is a parallel version of her mother, Becky reminds herself. But are they so different, in the end? What else from Project Cosmogone had been implanted in her, anyway?

That's an unanswerable question, and one Becky doesn't want to think about right now. God knows this day's been long enough already. Her mother's lapsed into silence; leaning against Mac she finds herself drifting off, into much needed sleep.

* * *

 _"So you're leaving the DXS?"_

 _"Afraid so. Winifred warned me, you know. What would happen if my cover ever got blown."_

 _A blonde woman she doesn't know, walking down the beach besides her. "I'm sorry, Ashton. I wish I could help."_

 _"No. It's all right, Beck- I suppose it'd be ludicrous, anyway. Imagine that getting around the intelligence community- Murdoc and MacGyver in one generation, you and I the next-"_

Another parallel dream. Who's Ashton, and how does she know her?

Then it hits her. Uncle Mac rescued a girl once, on Halloween. Ashton Cooke. Claimed she was related to Murdoc, of all people. His sister.

Heck of a time to start making connections about something in real life.

"Whatever are you all doing in here?" Ellen's sharp voice cuts through the dream, brings her crashing straight back to reality.

"I had two jetlagged girls here," Mac says. "Obviously I had to look after-"

"I know what I'm doing here," Becky interrupts. "Oh my god- Murdoc could put me here, but he couldn't fine-tune the details, not when it was my dream. I might have known I'd be needed- Mom, do you work with Winifred Cooke at the Phoenix Foundation?"

"That's his name, yes."

"English? Funny background? Maybe he was an assassin at one point?"

"That's him," Allison says, distinctly puzzled. "Though I don't see what that has to do with anything-"

"Are you working together on dream research, by any chance?"

"Why, yes. He has top secret clearance for Project Serendip, just as I do."

Becky closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them. Looking at neither her lazy, comfortable (though slightly puzzled) uncle, not at her trusting mother, but at Ellen MacGyver, née Stuart.

Ellen, who is never, ever going to trust in happiness as long as she lives. The poor woman. Ironically enough, she's her best ally right now.

Might as well tell the truth. "You know how you always thought that having a spy in the family might get everybody into trouble? You were right. Everybody's gotta get out of here, now."

"I need to know why," Ellen says, though her tone is more accepting than Becky's heard it so far. "Convince me, and we'll be out of here so fast it'll make your head spin."

"Now just hold on," Mac pipes up. Everybody ignores him.

"His name's Murdoc, he's a killer for HIT, and he hates Mac- well, maybe not this version here. But believe me, he hates our family like poison. He's tried to do away with us several times already."

"He's reformed," Allison argues. "He's working for me now. We're friendly colleagues, that's all there is to it!"

"Even if your Winifred- or Murdoc, or whoever he really is- tried to do all that," Mac asks, "what makes you think that ours will?"

"I don't think, I know. He's trouble. We're all in danger here. Believe it."

"Young lady," Allison snaps, "Even if this isn't your reality I'm still your mother. You don't have the right to tell me-"

"What was the point," Becky says, very quiet. "What was the point of implanting this weird psychic stuff in my head, if you aren't going to even listen to the results? You're more of a scientist than that, Mom."

"Sweet lord," Ellen says, looking rather stricken. "Before the accident Becky- our version- came to me one night, convinced she was dreaming other people's dreams. And I told that poor girl not to worry her head, that she must have been imagining things- Allison, did you really go ahead and do that? To your own daughter?"

"She told you?"

"Why in heaven's name would she have asked you? 'Yes, mother, I'd like to know whether you've been trying to rewrite my skull with those crazy psych tricks of yours-' Of course she didn't ask you!"

Allison pales. "How dare-"

"Shut up everybody," Mac says, evenly. "Look. I don't know what's really going on here, and frankly I don't care. But I gather that if we don't leave post-haste, some crazy axe-happy maniac is going to come after our family. Now, is that right or isn't it?"

"Yes," Becky says quickly.

Allison hesitates, bites her lip. "Maybe."

"Then we're getting out of here," Mac says. "Thank god we let Jack spring for that new four-seater- no, wait, there's five adults-"

"Four, Unc. I have a showdown with Murdoc to worry about. Trust me, I do this all the time."

"Fighting off evil versions of my lab assistant?" Allison asks. For once she just sounds confused.

"Something like that," Becky says, smiling. "C'mon guys, get out of here. Quick as you can."

* * *

If this was back in the waking world, Becky thinks, an evac would take all of four minutes. Less, if necessary: her uncle hasn't needed to tell her the importance of prioritising life over, say, the sanctity of property.

(Actually, he's pretty much taught her the exact opposite.)

But Allison doesn't seem to have impressed the same on her family, and ten minutes later, everything is in complete chaos.

"Why haven't you trained them for this?"

"For heaven's sake! I'm a scientist, not a field agent!"

Becky smothers a smile at that.

But the rest of it's not that funny. Trying to calm two children who are old enough to pick up on emotions running high, fetching a hundred and one things (it's weirdly reassuring that the duck tape drawer is right where it ought to be, but a lot else isn't). Finding Jack flat on the floor in one of the bedrooms, having a subdued panic attack.

"Becky, this place has been my home for years," he says, in response to her anxious entreaties. "I mean, if you're staying- why don't I stick around too? Give you some help n' all."

"Jack. I know what I'm doing, you don't." _At least, I hope I know what I'm doing._ "I really don't want you getting killed in the crossfire. Besides, they're gonna need you to fly the plane."

"Ellen's had her share of flight practice," Jack says, mulishly. "She's pretty good at it, actually."

"That doesn't mean I wanna be in a plane she's flying," Mac remarks, yanking his lover upright. "C'mon. Don't leave Ellen n' me alone to look after those two hooligans. They'd never forgive us for losing their Uncle Jack."

His voice is light and unconcerned, though he hugs Jack with desperate intensity. Some of the colour goes back into the pilot's face.

"Geez, Mac. You always could wrap me around your little finger."

"What else are friends for?" Mac says, kissing him. "C'mon. I'll need help getting some food together."

"Are you kidding? With a whole Christmas dinner in the house?"

"How do you expect to pack that?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something. Got a cooler in the basement, for starters."

* * *

Twenty minutes.

"Thank you," Ellen says, bumping into her. "I know we're in a hurry, but- thank you."

That's that. Bless her brevity.

* * *

Thirty minutes.

Finally they're ready. Ellen and Jack bundle the kids into the station wagon.

"You know what we could do, if we're going to be on the run and everything? There's a mother-in-law of yours up in Alaska we might say hello to."

"Now there's an idea..."

Mac starts for the truck, then turns to Becky.

Cradles her face in his hands. "You sure about this?" he asks softly.

She nods. "I'm sure."

"You know, I'm kinda jealous of my other self right now."

"How so?"

He smiles sadly. "For having a niece as smart and brave as you are, to take care of him. He must be so proud of you."

Her throat closes with sudden emotion. "God, I hope so," she whispers.

"He's gotta be, 'cos I sure am." His lips gently brush her forehead. "Take care, Becky. Hope you find your way back to him." He climbs into the truck. "C'mon Allie, let's go."

"No, I can't," Allison says suddenly. "Becky, you go with them. I'll stay here. Handle whatever it is."

"You wouldn't know how," Becky says, with a shrug. "Besides. There's my uncle to think of, remember?"

"All the more reason for me to stay here and let you go."

"Murdoc's the one who knows how to get me home again- and I'm going to find out how. Trust me, Mom. Everything's gonna be okay."

"I just wish we could have had more time," Allison whispers, cuddling her close. "My little girl, all grown up. So proud of you."

For a moment, it really is just like being a child again. Safe, knowing that nothing will ever hurt her in her mother's arms-

and then Mac honks. And they have to be off and away.

"I love you!" Becky yells, to both of them. Belatedly, but not too late; she sees them waving.

Then it's just her, and this empty cafe. An absolute mess of a place, now.

"Why so unlucky, huh?"

Predictably, it doesn't answer.

She fixes herself a turkey sandwich, sets the upturned coffee pot on to boil, and settles down to wait.

Doesn't take long. Becky's only just finished her drink when Murdoc pops into place- but not as she's expecting. He's a wreck, glasses askew, blood-streaked and breathing hardly at all.

 _Winifred Cooke, I presume,_ a part of her notes dryly. Yet she reaches for a cloth to bandage the wounds anyway. He stops her with a weak hand.

"What happened to you?"

"Allison," he murmurs, his eyes unfocused. "Get your family out of here. They're not safe."

She's never thought she looks that much like her mom, minor physical resemblance aside, but there's no other reason he'd be calling her by that name. Best to play along. "It's okay, Winifred. They're gone, I made sure of that...but what happened? What's going on?"

"My sister," he moans. "Ashton...I'd never have taken her for a traitor. Not in a million years. But she wanted the tech for herself, all along."

"Don't worry about that. You'll be fine, I'm gonna get you to a hospital."

"Never mind that...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Only reason I made it first was because..." he smiles, just a little. "She knocked me out and I started to dream. Took a chance on dreamwalking- d'you see? All fits in. Moving not just from plane to plane, but also in space. You really are a genius. I wish..."

"Wish what?" Becky asks, when it seems he's forgotten.

"Wish I'd told you sooner, that I loved you." His eyes glaze over and his body slumps. A check of his pulse confirms he's gone.

She closes his eyes. Her throat aches from tears she'd never imagined she might cry for the man.

Sympathy for the assassin? That's a first.

She doesn't know whether he'll know or not, but gently, quickly, she kisses him on the forehead. Finds blood on her lips.

She wipes it off, as the front door crashes open. A blonde woman charges in, carrying a shotgun; with a start Becky recognises her from the dream. Ashton.

A cold brown gaze flicks down to her dead brother, then to her. Smirks.

Raises the gun. Becky closes her eyes, bracing herself for impact-

* * *

"...interesting," Murdoc remarks. He folds up a newspaper and stares at her with intent.

She blinks, looks around. Back at the chess game.

A beautiful reality, bittersweet and touching, but honestly she's glad to be away. Be careful what you wish for, and all that.

At least something useful came out of it.

 _Winifred Cooke._ She snorts her amusement. The first solid lead on Murdoc's background in years, and she's the one to accidentally pick up on it from a dream. Gotta get this piece of intel out to the waking world, somehow.

"What's so funny?" he asks, annoyed.

"Nothing, except you trapped me in a reality where I was the one who died and my mother lived, and I still managed to escape."

"How is it that you're back so soon? I would have expected you'd still be finding the variable by now, let alone have finished agonising over your choice. And yet here you are, with blood on your face and a spring in your step."

"What choice?" Her head's muzzy; she's tired to death. God, these sudden transitions are unnerving. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"I keyed your dream to a very particular variable," Murdoc says. "My death. You ought to have been chewing that one over for years- do I kill him, don't I kill him, do I kill him, et cetera? Whatever went wrong?"

"You forgot to check that your other self would stop being as violent," Becky says, dully. He still knows more about this stuff than she does; she has to listen carefully for any scraps of information he'll give her.

"That was exactly the point! To make your dilemma all the more hilariously poignant- what did I leave out? Or perhaps you're coming around to my way of thinking?"

He's got that intently avaricious expression again, same as before. Time to deflect.

"Your sister murdered you."

The look of utter, complete shock on his face almost makes her feel sorry for him. Almost.

"Details. All of them. Now."

"That was a mistake," Becky remarks. Looks down at the chessboard; his queen's in trouble now, from her bishop and one of the remaining knights. And one of her own pawns, ready for promotion to queen. "You've just told me I have a bargaining chip."

"Damn you! Tell me what she did!"

"Uh-uh. Normally," she says. (Talking for her life like her uncle does, and heaven help her for thinking he must enjoy it.) "Normally I wouldn't give very good odds for my survival. But now I have something you don't know, that you can't get from anybody else." She smirks. "I think I'm winning this round."

(Oh, yes. Like uncle, like niece. Best not to get too cocky, though.)

"I can find out in my own way," Murdoc snaps.

Interesting. Why is he so tense? Surely it's not just because she survived his trap. "But it's going to eat you up until you do. And I can make that wait a lot shorter." Points to the chess game. "You'll be in checkmate soon. Ready to concede the match?"

He moves a rook and takes an insignificant piece, just to be petty.

She tells him everything she can about his reflection's demise, just to be accurate.


	22. Burden of command

Pete Thornton enters the R&D building, nods briskly at Nigel's deferential greeting as he signs in. Swipes his keycard, strides down the long beige hallway to the Sleep Labs. Another swipe and he's inside.

As Director he technically oversees many operations at the same time, international as well as local. Most of his workday is spent reading field reports and making decisions based on them, but there are some missions he prefers to supervise directly. It's merely sheer coincidence (and, admittedly, his own personal discretion at times) that they tend to be ones MacGyver's involved in. Or his niece, in this case.

Besides, he likes the hands-on approach. Makes him feel he can still make a contribution every now and then.

The scientists and technicians of Project Serendip greet him respectfully as they work, assessing displays on monitors, fiddling with dials and switches, poring over charts. It's a subdued business, even so; all movements muted, conversations conducted in soft whispers. Nothing to disturb the focus of the project, sleeping quietly in the hospital bed.

With a sense of relief Pete notes the slow, steady rise and fall of Becky's chest under the quilt (jewel-toned shades of blue, purple and green, her favorite colors) and the relaxed features of her youthful face, or at least the portion not covered by the Medusa-like helmet.

Nikki looks up, tucks a bookmark into a paperback spy novel. "Evening, Pete," she says softly.

"How's Becky doing?"

She glances over at a nearby monitor. "Over twenty-four hours under and still pretty stable. No complications."

"Where's MacGyver?"

"In the break room. Said he had a taste for hot chocolate after Becky mentioned it on the EVAC," gesturing towards the Encephalo-Visual-Auditory-Converter, also called dreamvision by Jack Dalton. On the screen Becky plays chess with Murdoc.

"Any notion as to his next move, so to speak?"

"He hasn't exactly tipped his hand yet. Dr. Morgan warned us it may take a while for her to glean any useful information this way. We'll just have to be patient, Pete; a large part of spying is waiting, after all."

"I know," he sighs. "That's the hardest part of the Great Game, sometimes. All the inactivity while other operatives do the leg work."

The assassin scowls as Becky triumphantly plucks a jet-black rook from the board.

"She's holding her own against him so far," Nikki notes with a touch of pride in her voice. "Never backs down from any challenges he throws her way, either in the other realities or this ongoing chess game they seem to be playing in between."

"Knowing her family I'm not surprised," Pete chuckles. "Speaking of which, I'll go check on her uncle. Keep me apprised on her progress."

"Of course." She resumes reading _Smiley's People._

In the break room he finds MacGyver dawdling over a cup of hot chocolate. "Hey, Pete."

"How's it going, Mac?"

"Fine, I guess." He leans back in the chair, stretches.

"Bored yet? I know just hanging around's not exactly your style."

He smiles faintly, gives a small shrug. "Maybe a little bit. Mostly feeling...pensive, I guess."

"About what?"

"Since Becky's been under I've already seen two different versions of myself stuck in Mission City, running my mom's coffee shop. No college, never got the chance to travel. Just gets me thinkin', you know? What might've been, stuff like that. I guess as desperate as I was to leave home back in the day, some part of me might've been convinced sticking around was the better option if I had good enough reason. Sometimes I still wonder if I made the right decision."

"I have no doubt of it, Mac. You had the chance to fulfill your dreams, and now a lot of people have been helped when they needed it the most, thanks to you. Besides, look at the bright side- at least Becky hasn't come across any worse alternatives so far, such as you not existing at all."

"Yeah, there's that, I guess." MacGyver nervously rubs at the back of his neck.

How would he feel, muses Pete, seeing his own life take a divergent turn in some other reality, if he hadn't joined the Army to serve in Korea, or Vietnam? Or not gone on to the DXS? Another version where things could've gone quite differently. Boggles the mind, really.

He places a calming, supportive hand on his friend's shoulder. Keeping up the morale of his agents is also part of the job sometimes, making sure they can complete their tasks more effectively.

After a few moments Mac visibly shakes himself out of his blue funk, smiles wryly down at the china mug with the Phoenix logo in his hand. "Not nearly as good as my mom's hot chocolate, but not bad either. Definitely need to teach Becky the recipe when she wakes up, though. Want me to make you a cup?"

Why not? Beats going back to the office for mediocre coffee.

Just as he's about to accept Dalton flings open the door. "Hey, Mac? Dr. Morgan needs you right away. Becky's acting really spooky."

"You mean she woke up and I missed it?"

"Didn't say that. Just that something weird's going on. See for yourself."

The room's cramped thanks to the scientists and technicians, but they obediently give way to reveal Becky moving restlessly in the bed, her left arm lifting to make odd little waving gestures in the air.

"What's happening?" Pete demands. "Is she having a nightmare?"

Morgan peers at the EEG readout. "Not according to this. The brainwaves ought to be all over the place if that were true, yet this is a normal dreaming pattern. She's agitated over something, though."

MacGyver stares down at Becky, brow puckered in thought. "I know what she's doing. The way her hand's crooked, thumb and forefinger touching each other-" He turns to a technician. "Get me a pencil and paper, quickly. She needs to write something down."

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Automatic writing? Usually a purely psychic phenomenon, while undergoing a trance. Not normal activity for a dreamer."

"Well, one might say she already is under a trance, of sorts," Chandrashekar suggests. "Obviously she's trying to communicate something important to us whilst remaining unconscious."

When they are handed to him Mac places the pencil in her hand and carefully directs it to the paper. "There you go, Beck," he murmurs. "What do you need to tell us?"

Becky scribbles for a minute, then her hand goes limp.

Nikki picks up the paper, hands it to Pete. "How's this for useful information?"

It's Becky's handwriting, all right. No mistaking that distinctive left-handed slant:

 _Ashton Cooke. Check on whereabouts._

 _Brother is Winifred Cooke aka Murdoc._

Well, well, well.

"This may be the first solid lead on Murdoc's background we've had in a long time," he muses. "Winifred Cooke. I'll have that name run through every national and international database Phoenix can access. Not sure who Ashton is, though."

Mac spares a glance over his shoulder. "Aw c'mon Pete, don't you remember? I rescued her on Halloween from HIT a few years back. Murdoc claimed she was his sister, though I kinda found it hard to believe at first. But how could she be mixed up in all this? Last I heard she was back home in England, doing postgraduate work in psychology at Cambridge University."

Jack sniggers. "Winifred?! Sheesh. No wonder Murdoc changed his name. Almost as bad as yours, Mac."

"Not funny, Jack."

Nikki gasps. "Look at the screen."

The notional island has abruptly disappeared, taking Murdoc, the chess set and everything else with it.

Everything, except for Becky herself.

In a second she's surrounded by a slowly swirling vortex. Vainly attempts to remain afloat but fails, drawn interminably downwards. Drifting figures swirl around her, none holding their shape for more than an instant, forming and reforming with no apparent purpose or substance.

Drowning in Parabola, one of the hazards mentioned in the Cosmogone file.

In the bed Becky gasps for air. Both arms waving, grasping at nothing. Struggling to stay alive within her own mind.

"What the heck's going on? Is she waking up this time?" MacGyver demands.

"Dr. Morgan, there's a massive brainwave spike across all bands," states the technician seated in front of the monitors.

The psychologist frowns. "Nightmare?"

"Can't tell for certain. It's major, whatever it is. Never seen anything like this before."

"Damn that Murdoc," Jack mutters. "What the hell did he do to her?"

Becky continues to thrash around, restless.

She's panicking, Pete thinks. She's in trouble and everyone's staring at her, paralyzed with confusion, uncertain how to help.

Time for the hands-on approach. "MacGyver, you're the one with the connection," Pete says briskly. "You have to do something."

His friend stares at him, panic in his eyes to match his niece's emotional state. "Like what?"

"Whatever you do when she has a bad nightmare at home. Hold her. Try to calm her down."

Mac swallows, nods acquiescence. Grasps her flailing hands, pulls her close. "Easy, Becky. It's me. It's okay, everything's all right." Keeping his voice calm and quiet. "I've got you now, sweetheart. You're safe. Relax."

She struggles, moans. He desperately pulls her tighter against him, murmurs gentle reassurances, soft words of love. But among the litany of comfort other words are fiercely uttered, under his breath:

"C'mon, c'mon. Get someone to rescue her, already. She can't die in Parabola like this. I need my princess, and there's too much at stake. No way I can cope with Murdoc invading my dreams, not without her. Darn it, she didn't ask for this! You have to help her; you owe both of us that much. Find her an island, some kinda vessel, _anything..._ "

Pete wonders who he thinks he's talking to. Allison's spirit, maybe?

On the EVAC screen Becky's vision is just beginning to dim as a solid figure swims towards her, wearing rolled-up shirtsleeves and trousers, pushing his way forward with powerful sweeps of arms and legs. The closer he approaches the more familiar he seems.

"Looks like another you, Mac," Jack comments. "Funny glasses you have on, though."

The other version reaches out with his hands, gently cradles her face, leans in for a kiss- no, he must be blowing air into her lungs. Then he's holding her close, pulling her with him as he kicks upwards towards the surface.

Golden light glows faintly overhead, filtered through the water-like medium. "Cosmogone," Morgan breathes reverently. "The light of remembered suns in Parabola. Dr. Grahme was right."

A trim steamship from a bygone era lies in wait not far away as they break the surface; a rope ladder is lowered down into the water. As Becky's hauled up and settled on deck four people gape at her.

"Bless my soul," an older man with indistinct features says. "It's a flexion. But what's she doing, in the unwater?"

"Sure wasn't the backstroke," the other Mac replies dryly. "It's okay," he murmurs to Becky. "Relax. You're safe now."

"Oh, good," she murmurs, slumping downwards onto the deck.

The screen goes dark; at the same moment her physical body sags limply against her uncle, startling him. "Whoa. Wasn't expecting that."

"Is she still alive?" Pete asks anxiously.

Chandrashekar helps MacGyver carefully untangle helmet wires and IV tubes as they settle her back against the pillows, then checks her vital signs. "Appears so. Everything's stable now."

"Her brainwaves are back to their normal dreaming state as well," Morgan comments. "Good thing she was rescued in time; I doubt she could've held integrity for much longer in that vortex. According to her mother's working notes, prolonged exposure to raw dreamstuff's fatal for most dreamers; the longer the exposure the more weakened they become."

Jack takes off his peaked cap, wipes his brow. "Whew. Close shave then, huh?"

Pete shakes his head, turns to Mac as he carefully tucks the quilt back over Becky's now quiescent form. "You did it. You saved her."

"Don't know about that. Think I had some help on this one."

"Anything you care to tell me about, over that hot chocolate you were going to make?"

"Later, Pete. I promise. Right now I think I'd better stick around in case something else happens, you know?" He settles in the chair Nikki's abandoned, takes Becky's hand in his. So much love and concern in his eyes, it's very touching.

"I'll take this new piece of intel back to the office. Maybe something useful will come out of it. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks, Pete," MacGyver replies absently, all his attention now fully on his niece. "See you later."

Message received. He harrumphs, straightens his tie, nods briskly to Morgan and the others before he leaves. Must keep up appearances, after all.

Time to fade into the background once again, let his agents resume their duties.

For once Pete's happy to do just that. He doesn't completely understand this dreamwalking business anyway, and what he's just observed in person of Becky's experiences in Parabola so far has frankly unnerved him. Good thing she's got her uncle and the others in the lab for backup.

Best just to provide support in the office as Director, like he does for any other mission. It's really the least he can do for them.

Though a part of him is beginning to wonder if he was right to even authorize Project Serendip in the first place, if it's taking this much toll on his agents.


	23. Ship of dreams

_Authors' note: This references two chapters (55 and 56) of Fulgent Engineering, a classic MacGyver crossover story written by co-author deepandlovelydark, currently available only on AO3. Which is what got the whole collaborative ball rolling between us.  
_

* * *

Becky huddles in the deck chair, cradles a cup of peppermint tea in her hands.

Funny how she's never felt the need for sustenance in Parabola, but just the idea of holding a hot drink in her hands is a comfort nonetheless.

After a while she makes the cup disappear and holds her hands in front of her, palms together. An attitude of prayer, to whichever deities have charge over this strange corner of Parabola she's found herself in.

Pulls her hands slowly apart. Nothing happens.

Tries again, different gestures, another technique. Nothing.

"Darn it," she sighs.

Time to face facts. She's simply not ready to pursue Murdoc in her current state; exposure to the raw dreamstuff churned up by that vortex must've weakened her too much.

Or was it something else Murdoc did to her?

Something had bothered the assassin so much he removed the notional island and everything on it in a fit of pique, but for the life of her she still can't figure out what. Was it losing their ongoing chess game? News of his other self's milquetoast existence as a researcher, his sister's betrayal? Realization he's not fully in control of the other realities after all?

The fact she managed to dig up one of his closely-guarded secrets, and get it out to the waking world?

Questions which will have to wait for later, until she regains enough strength and dexterity to go braving the sixty-four winds in search of Murdoc. She definitely needs to get a handle on her dreamcrafting, before facing the assassin on her own terms.

If, that is, she's allowed to remain aboard the good ship _Clipper_ in the first place.

Voices drift out from inside the bridge, another dispute among the crew. The Spy and the Student in favor of her staying, the Cartographer and Captain against (the Welshman doesn't care either way, so he's abstaining).

She sighs again, remembering her arrival.

* * *

"Fancy. You're the strangest flexion I've laid eyes on since London."

Becky coughs herself awake and looks around. A ship, judging by the room's sway and elegant portholes. Glances at the shabby period furniture, the abundance of cushions. A boy a little older than her stares at her intently, whose drably restrained clothing doesn't quite disguise a certain squishiness about his appearance.

"What makes you say that?" Parabola's chock full of strange things, after all; how anyone can see her in the same category boggles the mind.

"Because you're evidently not a reflection, or you'd have breasted the unwaves better than that, and yet I can't seem to find you out by any test I know. How d'you do it? Or are you a reflection who's finally found permanence, at last?"

"Sorry. I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about." (She doesn't need to feign ignorance; she's been so focused on dealing with Murdoc she's yet to explore the infinite reaches of Parabola. Adventures for another time, she hopes.)

"Few people ever do," the boy says, with such disappointed gloom in his voice it's almost laughable. "Flexion, then. The Spy did say as much...but there I am, getting ahead of myself. First things first. I'm the Unsettling Student." Offers his hand.

She shakes it, gingerly (just as soft and squashy as he looks). "Unsettling in what way, exactly?"

He looks deeply offended. "I'd rather not say."

"Sorry."

"So d'you remember your name, or not? Or have you lost your memory?"

"Course I remember it. It's Becky-"

"Stop right there," the Student warns. "Given names aren't considered quite safe to toss about in these parts. You're already in danger of attracting attention to our ship as it is, being a flexion."

She can see he means it as good advice, even if the delivery is needlessly smug. "Okay. So where am I, exactly?"

"We found you drowning in the Parabolan sea- you do know what Parabola is, at least?"

"Yes," she says. Relieved to be able to answer at least one question rightly.

"No, you don't," the Student says with a smirk. "Believe me. I've been sailing this ocean a few years now and I've still no idea what's going to pop round the next corner."

"You always show off like this?" It's annoying the way he reminds her of Murdoc.

"When I have a decent audience, yes," he says, with a bluntness that almost makes up in honesty what it loses for style (maybe not so much like Murdoc, then)."I was- well, you might call it stranded. Can't go home any more. We thought you might be in the same predicament."

"I hope not. I've got somebody looking after me, at the other end." She rummages about for her lifeline, finds it where it should be. Also discovers spots where shimmering threads dangle apart from the cord, as though it's been fraying en route; she frowns and tries to gather it all. As the last fragments are drawn up, she finds her uncle's solid presence, holding the other end. Relief washes over her.

"Ah. Silver cord. Wise move."

"That's what we figured." Silently blesses her mother's foresight; right now it's all that keeping her sane during this whole crazy experience.

"Is the Student boring you with his endless questions yet?" Her rescuer smirks as he enters the cabin, a woman in tow older than the Student, with age lines starting to touch her face and a brisk, matter-of-fact manner about her.

"I've had worse interrogations," she replies dryly.

"We've only just gotten to the introductions," the boy informs them. "I'm the Unsettling Student, as I said. This is the Atheist Cartographer and Innocent Spy. The Anonymous Captain's on the bridge, and the Happy Welshman's around somewhere, keeping things shipshape as usual."

"And what's her use-name?" the Cartographer inquires.

"She hasn't one. Just a given name. Which I shan't mention, lest we attract the dragons' attention."

If names are such a fuss around here she'll avoid using them, but endearments don't count. "Hey, Unc. Have to say the nickname kinda suits you."

He cocks his head and smiles, quizzically. "Sorry, but you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm nobody's uncle, unless my flexion's got family tucked away somewhere. Think that's the case, Cartographer? Any siblings he lost to the irrigo that you know about?"

"No," the woman says. "An only child, no doubt about that."

Must be more of Murdoc's work again. Just like he'd warned her, to be fair.

"Where I'm from we're related," she informs the Spy. "I dunno if you people have noticed, but Parabola is fairly infinite, with room for an awful lot of parallels."

"I predicted this!" the Student says, in sudden hot delight. "l warned them, if we kept using this monstrosity of an engine we'd eventually have to stumble across stranger tides than we'd ever dreamed. Innocent, your Fulgent Impeller's dragged us into the maw of some other dreamscape's waters."

"There you are, then," the Spy tells his companions. "I said she was calling me; the Impeller just tuned in to my thoughts and brought us here, that's all."

"I didn't doubt that part of it," the woman says with amusement. "You're developing rather a knack for picking up strays. Luckily for her, too. Unless she's simply a very peculiar liar."

"Cynical as ever," the Student says, clearly meaning it for an insult. She smiles at his scowl.

"I just don't want everyone go believing without any sort of proof."

"That may be the most sensible thing I've heard all day," Becky mutters. "But seriously, I'm just a Dreamer. A traveler, you might say."

"Forgive us if we don't take you immediately at your word. You could be dragon-bait, for all we know," the Cartographer counters.

"You want a reason why I'm here? Fine. I was playing chess with an assassin and in a fit of pique he abandoned me, took away the whole notional island. Then suddenly I'm slipping into this weird vortex. I didn't even have time to shield myself-"

"Hang on," the Student says. "You faced raw dreamstuff, alone and unshielded? It's a wonder you haven't void-slipped, died the true death. That's an impressive feat; I must hear all about it."

Everyone- including the Spy- is watching her with avid curiosity now. It's making her really nervous.

"Sorry," she says. "Thanks for rescuing me, but I really must dash-" Snaps her fingers.

Nothing.

Tries some other basic techniques, hard-earned lessons with Morgan and Beatty, then a few things gleaned from her mother's notes. No dice.

Oh, god. She's stuck again.

* * *

"Still having trouble with your dreamcrafting?" The Spy's soft, warm Midwestern drawl- tinged with a slight London accent- brings Becky back to the present. He smiles down at her, a certain world-weary tiredness to his features, which her Mac doesn't seem to possess.

"Yeah."

"Not surprised. Messing around in raw dreamstuff's pretty dangerous, even for us Reflectons. Lucky for you we came along when we did."

"I know, believe me. Thanks a lot for rescuing me; I would've died for real, like the Student said. I really appreciate it. And thanks for sticking up for me, too, just now."

"My pleasure. So few of us self-aware folk around, we oughta help each other out, you know?"

There's more friendliness in his gaze lately. The situation between them has become pretty similar to Serenity, in that they aren't related to each other yet still manage to form a connection of sorts. It hasn't been too hard to get him to trust her, at least, though that hasn't exactly been the case for certain others in the crew.

"Somehow I doubt your Cartographer feels the same," Becky notes dryly. "According to her the longer I stay on board, the more your ship becomes a tempting target for the Fingerkings, whatever they are."

"I'm not worried," he says confidently. "We've been on their most-wanted list for a while now anyway; having you here doesn't change that. And with the Impeller we can outrun the dragons for as long as it takes until we find a safe harbor."

"Still, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. Once I've recovered my abilities I'll be out of your hair, I promise."

"No need to leave on my account. Only I've gotten used to having you around. There's something in the engine room that might help with your problem, though. Wanna stretch your legs and have a look?" He cocks his head, smiles charmingly.

She hesitates. The Cartographer and the Captain have both given fair warning: The ship's a Reflection after a fashion, with her own powerful, mysterious dreams; even they must tread lightly. No telling how the _Clipper_ will react to having a Dreamer belowdecks.

"It'll be fine," the Spy reassures Becky. "You'll be all right, so long as you're with me. They want you to see this, besides."

"They?"

"The ship. And the engine, too. C'mon."

She follows him down a smooth spiral. Into an engine room as vast as a cathedral, all burnished metal and ribbed vaults curving down to portholes of iridium-coated glass. A huge engine in the center, almost grotesque in black ivory.

She shakes her head, nearly hypnotized by its innumerable fractal twists and turns. "What on earth is that thing?"

"The Fulgent Impeller," the Spy replies softly, almost reverently. He opens a hatch, the careworn lines of his face illuminated by all the colors of the Parabolan spectrum glowing from within. "This is what I was made for. To find the perfect engine, and bring it to fruition. Raw chaos refined and made into something useful."

He's so enthralled by his feat, it's as if he's forgotten her presence. A good thing, since simply staring at the engine bothers her in a hundred different ways.

As if it's watching _her_. Taking her measure. Turning her inside out and back again.

Becky instinctively touches her silver cord for reassurance, sidles towards the entrance. Maybe there's a coracle she could steal, later on. Take her chances alone on Parabola's chaotic sea.

This whole ship's giving her the creeps, frankly.

"Hey. Come back here." He's staring at her, a faint amusement in his eyes despite his air of Midwestern detachment.

"I...I'd really rather not," she stutters, a quiver of fear running through her. "If it's all the same to you. Thanks for the invitation, though."

She turns to leave, he grabs her shoulder, spins her around to face him. "Stay. Please. The Impeller can help, it wants to. You won't be harmed, I promise. Trust me."

Against all reason she does, god help her. In every other reality she knows she can trust MacGyver, so why not here? Her one safe anchor in the entirety of Parabola.

(Except he's not really her uncle; only an image of one from an alternate reality, where she doesn't exist at all anyway. Familiar yet wholly alien at the same time.)

"Trust me," he repeats softly, taking both of her hands in his. Leading her towards the Impeller's open hatch.

Placing her hands directly inside.

The stinging sensation of pure creation in progress, burning hotter than any sun in the universe. Fire flickers along every nerve of her body.

She screams.

* * *

Soft cushions at her back, cradling her. Becky opens her eyes.

A far, cozy corner of the engine room. The Spy's squatting in front of her, his body partially obscuring the dark bulk of the Impeller. Almost a shadow himself, from her perspective.

"Feeling better?"

"What the hell did you do to me?" After the experience she's just had, stronger language seems entirely appropriate.

"Nothing much."

"Whaddya mean? You probably burned my hands to a crisp with that stunt."

"No, I didn't," he says calmly. "Take a look."

She holds them up, flexes the fingers in astonishment. Not a single mark. No sign of agony on the skin. (Oddly reminds her of the gom jabbar test, from the _Dune_ novels.)

Her hands are fine. Better than fine.

They're _glowing_ , even. From within, just like the chess pieces Murdoc had touched.

Could it mean...?

Tries a few basic techniques, save for snapping her fingers (doesn't feel right to do so, at this point). Everything works perfectly, quicker and more potent than before, even.

Contact with the Impeller's changed her somehow, Becky realizes. But did it change everything?

Oh no, what about-?

Brief panic. Checks her silver cord. The fraying sections are gone, repaired. And the link is stronger than ever.

"But how-"

"Told you the Impeller could help. It did, didn't it?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry for yelling, just took me by surprise, that's all-" Drops her gaze from his, embarrassed. "Anyway. Thanks."

"No problem."

There's so much that's familiar, she finds herself fighting the instinctive need to seek comfort from him, feel him cuddling her. Hear his reassuring heartbeat.

...But no. He's not her Uncle Mac. Not even a copy of him. A Reflection of a completely different version.

(He doesn't even have a heartbeat, besides.)

An ache settles into her chest, a desperate homesickness.

God, she wants to wake herself up right now. But she can't, knowing Murdoc's still out there, wreaking havoc in Parabola. There's a duty to be done before returning to the real world, to her uncle and friends, to the warm good life that's waiting for her.

In that moment she finally understands how lonely Mac must feel sometimes, while on assignment.

 _Be brave, princess,_ she remembers him telling her.

Easier said than done.

* * *

Becky spends a few more non-days (or is it weeks? Ah, the treachery of time in Parabola) on board the _Clipper_ , practicing and refining her techniques, drawing from the limitless power of the engine belowdecks. Learning from the Spy and the rest of the crew (who have a new grudging respect for her, after her ordeal with the Impeller) secret strategies normally reserved only for Reflections, adapted for her own personal use.

In return she teaches the crew how to shield themselves more effectively from the dragons, offers the Cartographer and the Student informative tidbits gleaned from her mother's notes and her own experiences. (Every detail presented seems to become a topic for hot academic debate between the two scholars. She's beginning to suspect they argue just for the fun of it.)

For non-hours she stands at the prow, tasting the sixty-four winds. Until at length she picks up the faintest frisson of danger, the sharp touch of a knife. Hot lick of a flamethrower. Signs of the death and destruction Murdoc inevitably leaves in his wake.

"You found him, didn't you." A statement rather than a question, spoken in a voice that's familiar yet not.

The Spy's standing behind her, thumbs hooked into trouser pockets. A casual stance that reminds her almost painfully of her uncle.

"I did," she admits.

"Sure you're ready to face him?"

"Ready or not, I have to. Murdoc may be dead and gone in your flexion's reality, but not in mine. He has to be stopped, and I'm the only one who can do it. Thanks for everything you've given me- you and everyone else. How can I repay you?"

"Just do your best. That's all I ask."

Oddly enough, Becky's reluctant to leave all of a sudden. The _Clipper's_ been a useful haven, if not an entirely welcoming one. Maybe the Spy could use a willing assistant with the Impeller, if she ever loses hold of her silver cord.

(An absurd notion, but one she'll have to consider eventually. Being set adrift in Parabola's one of the hazards mentioned in the Cosmogone file; if worst comes to worst, it might be a good idea to have a reality to anchor herself in.)

The Cartographer comes up beside the Spy, sliding an arm along his waist. He smiles at her, they share a brief kiss.

Then again, maybe not. Oh, well. At least her uncle's reflection won't be alone.

"You'll look after him?"

"Naturally," comes the smug reply.

No doubt she will.

The Spy winks. "See you around sometime."

Time to leave. Becky steps back, takes a deep breath. "Right. Safe travels, to all of you."

"To you as well, young dreamweaver," murmurs the Cartographer.

A snap of fingers.

"Well," the Spy sighs. "There she goes."

"You'll miss her, won't you?"

"That's a cynical question, coming from you."

"Don't act so surprised. Cynical's part of my flexion's name, after all."

He laughs, then sobers. "Yeah, guess I will. Hope she'll be okay."

"I'm sure she will be. Now come, the Captain and the Student are eager to explore this new Parabolan sea and I have our course all charted out. Go and make your wondrous engine ready."

"You bet." The Innocent Spy heads down below to tend to his Impeller.


	24. Interlude 6: Golden Slumbers

MacGyver reclines in the lounge chair, the sum warming his body (a Phoenix research trip to Antarctica almost turned him into a popsicle) and the soothing, endless roar of the waves relaxing his taut nerves.

A golden glow in the late afternoon sky, a perfect summer's day at the beach.

"This is the life, isn't it?" Nikki sighs beside him.

"Sure is."

"No penguins, no permafrost, no nights that last 22 hours. Only sun, sand, and surf."

"Just about perfect, then."

She sits up, raises an eyebrow. "Only 'just about'?"

"Sorry. With you it's _absolutely_ perfect."

"That's better." They share a sweet, lingering kiss.

"Uncle Mac? Wanna come see my sandcastle?"

He reluctantly turns away to face a seven-year-old girl in a blue swimsuit and floppy purple sunhat. "Can't it wait? We're real busy right now."

"No, you're kissing. Yuck." She makes a face and Nikki chuckles. "Please, Unc?"

Becky's adorable, he thinks, with her wide blue eyes behind glasses and strands of hair escaping from twin auburn braids. He can't deny her anything.

"Go on, Mac," Nikki says with an indulgent smile. "I'm not going anywhere."

The sandcastle's huge, complete with moat and turrets, the center tower a delicate conical shape. Walls are decorated with golden agate pebbles and jagged bits of seashell. Scraps of white satin tied to sticks serve as flags.

"Nice work. You built it yourself?"

"Uh-huh."

"Got any buyers interested? Real estate listings in the newspaper?"

She giggles. "No, silly! This is the castle of the Brave Princess and the Clever Knight."

"Oh, okay. So what's going on with them lately?"

She arranges herself on the beach blanket, crossing her legs, a sober expression on her small face; Mac mimics her. It's storytime, after all.

"Well, the Princess has gone far away on an important quest, leaving the Knight to run the kingdom all by himself."

"He must be pretty lonely, then. Without her."

"No, he's got his friends with him. Squire Jack and Lord Peter and his secret sweetheart Nikki, the Lady Knight. But he worries a lot about his Princess, too."

"He does," Mac agrees. "She's gone off to face a really mean ogre, who's threatening the peaceful sleep of everyone they know."

Becky nods. "The Princess is the only one who can fight him, 'cause of the magic spells her mother the Dreaming Queen left her. She's trying to stay brave, but it's really hard, Unc. So many strange places she's been, meeting with people who look like the Knight and his friends yet aren't, and she even lost her magic for a while."

"Yeah, and got it back again, thanks to a ship run by kindly mirror-people."

"They were helpful, but the Princess isn't really sure of herself anymore. She's got more magic than before, only now she's afraid she still won't be strong enough to face the ogre. She's scared, Unc. And lonely, all by herself. She doesn't know what'll happen next."

The sun disappears behind a cloud and the wind picks up, tousling their hair. Her small body shivers; Mac scoops her up in his arms.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, cuddling her close. "The Clever Knight's scared too. He wishes he could take her place and fight the ogre instead, but that's just not possible. He's really concerned about her, even though he tries not to show it around his friends. What she's doing is dangerous, and he's afraid he'll simply fall apart if she doesn't come back, though it's something he can only admit to himself in his dreams. For what's the Knight, without his Princess to love?"

(His eyes sting with salt, though whether from sea spray or tears he honestly can't tell the difference.)

Becky looks up at him, wonderingly. "Oh Unc, don't cry. They're not really alone, so long as they have each other. They have a magic silver cord, too, that keeps them connected no matter how far away they are from one another. And the Princess will do her very best to be brave, just like the Clever Knight taught her."

"Sounds like a happy ending to me."

"Sure it is. It'll be okay, Unc. You'll see." She hugs him with an abundance of love- clean, pure, innocent, sweet. He gathers strength from her, and returns it in equal measure.

Of course she's right. Surely he's troubling himself over nothing. His niece has the training, the good sense, the bravery...

"MacGyver?" Nikki's standing in front of them, silhouetted against the brilliant sunset of a perfect summer's day.

Becky- or rather the little-girl image he secretly cherishes, his _anima_ \- picks up a piece of agate from the sand. "This is for you, Uncle Mac," she says solemnly. "To remember."

A golden glow shines from within; automatically his hand closes over it.

"MacGyver, it's time..."

* * *

"MacGyver? Time to wake up now."

"Wha-?" She's standing in front of him. No bikini, only ordinary clothes. "Oh. Hey, Nikki."

"It's 0630. Your shift starts soon; thought you'd like to take a quick jog around the building and have something to eat before then."

"Good idea. Thanks." He stands up, stretches. The cot's not the most comfortable thing for slumber, but it does the job.

"Sleep well?"

"I think so. Say Nikki, how about taking a roadtrip with Becky and me up the coast when this is over? We know this great secluded beach near Trinidad. Found a lot of agates there."

She smiles, faintly. "You know, I think I'd rather like that. After all this strangeness we'll need a decent break."

"Great." Mac pulls on his jacket, shoves a hand into a pocket. Finds something that wasn't there before. Pulls it out.

A piece of golden agate, its edges softened by endless waves and wind. Glowing faintly from within as it catches the light from the bedside lamp.

His hand closes over it, brings it to his lips, tucks it back into the pocket.

A symbol of a connection, one that hasn't yet been broken. A promise of a safe return, a happy ending.

Something to hold onto, whatever happens next.


	25. Tea and Sympathy

"Come on, Becky."

She looks warily at her big brother, way on top of the playground slide. "I dunno, Chris."

"Aw, don't worry about it. I'm right here. Or are you a fraidy cat?" An all-too-familiar note of scorn enters his voice and that makes her mad.

"I'm not a fraidy cat," she insists.

"So what're you waiting for, squirt? C'mon already."

She gathers up her courage, counts the rungs during the laborious climb. Twelve of them on a narrow ladder.

(It's an awfully long way down, all the same. Makes her really nervous.)

He's still sitting at the top when she gets there. "C'mon Chris, slide down."

"Nope." Smirks at her.

"Then lemme go first, you freak. I don't like being up here."

"Thought you weren't a fraidy cat." He gives an exaggerated yawn, stretches. "Think I'll stay up here all afternoon. Real peaceful."

Big brothers are really a pain sometimes. If he isn't gonna budge she'll just have to climb right over him. So there.

He grabs her arm on the way. "Where're you going, squirt?"

"Let go of me, Chris!"

He keeps tugging at her and they tussle. Suddenly she's falling, landing really hard on her right arm.

"Beck? You okay?" Chris kneels by her side. "C'mon squirt, speak to me."

"I'm fine," she grumbles, sitting up. "Feel kinda woozy, though."

"Let's go home." He helps her to stand. She's a little wobbly at first, but soon able to walk by herself.

"Hey, you aren't gonna tell Mom or Dad I pushed you off the slide, are you? Only they'll go nuts." He's looking at her anxiously.

"...Will you do all my chores for a week?"

He nods, relieved. "You got a deal."

Becky smiles to herself, which turns into a wince as her arm begins to smart a little. But by the time they arrive back at the house the pain's gone away.

In fact, the injury's almost completely forgotten until a week later, when she raises her right arm to reach something and cries out in excruciating pain. Her folks drive her to the hospital, the doctors take an x-ray and say it's a greenstick fracture, which means she has to have her arm in a sling for a few weeks.

Chris winds up doing her chores anyway, since she can't really do them one-handed. Though she never does tell her folks it's all his fault.

Ever since then, she's really hated heights.

Which does nothing, Becky thinks, to explain why she's currently hanging off the side of a mountain in a hypothetical noetic realm some fourteen years later.

* * *

The top's an awfully long way up, and the bottom's an awfully long way down.

Becky closes her eyes and grips the rope for dear life, hoping to god her hands don't slip. After some huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning she reaches a ledge just wide enough for her to take a break without falling over.

(At one point she'd thought about simply letting go and floating her way to the top- it is a dream realm, after all, anything's theoretically possible- but the sight of rocks being smashed to pieces far below her more or less confirmed the presence of gravity on this notional island. So climbing the old-fashioned way it is.)

Carefully looking neither up nor down, she regards the sprawling vista laid out before her. Wilderness up to the edge of the notional island, then Parabola in all its crazy, disorganized glory.

What kind of nasty, sadistic streak does Murdoc possess to recreate the Widowmaker here, anyway? She knows about Mike Forrester's tragic accident in the real world, the weeks Jack Dalton spent agonizing over it, and what her uncle had to do to pull him back from the brink. The trail she followed from the _Clipper_ led her to this point; from whom did he steal these memories, and what does he stand to gain by putting her through the same ordeal?

Questions she fully intends to ask her quarry, once she reaches the top.

* * *

With a gasp of triumph she finally pulls herself up onto the summit, blinks in surprise.

English countryside. Rolling hills, fields marked out in neat hedgerows. A rambling path at her feet.

Which leads eventually to a rustic wooden gate and an absurdly quaint little farm, complete with resplendent garden and a two-story cottage, in mellow stone and tiled roof. A door opens, beckoning her with the promise of tea and freshly-baked scones, powerfully appealing after the long, arduous climb.

Becky knows better than to take anything at face value at this point. Clearly another trap.

Yet she finds herself stepping inside regardless.

An attractive blonde-haired woman waits for her in the parlor, by a fully apportioned table set for high tea. Smiles warmly in greeting, holds out her hand.

"Rebecca Grahme, I presume? Ashton Cooke."

* * *

"Please forgive me for the deception. I understand you were expecting my brother, having caught his scent. Which I had deliberately cast out into the sixty-four winds, hoping to get your attention. Care for a sandwich?"

Becky eyes the food warily. "Um..."

"They're not lethal," Ashton assures her. "Unlike Winifred I have nothing against you or your family. Everything in this dreamscape is perfectly safe."

(She's just as verbose as her brother, though her accent's a trifle less posh. More countrified, perhaps.)

"Thanks." Becky takes two from the offered silver tray. Fresh cucumber and Scottish smoked salmon, with the crusts cut off. Takes a sip of Darjeeling, two sugars. Delicious.

"So what do you do in the waking world, if I might ask?"

"You could say I'm working for Her Majesty's Secret Service."

"Like in the James Bond movies?"

"Nothing nearly so glamorous, I'm afraid. Mostly contracted research for MI-6; dreamwalking, that sort of thing."

"For how long?" She's got at least six or seven years on her, Becky figures.

"Oh, quite a while now. Though I'd hardly call myself an expert in the field, unlike your mother. Allison Grahme was a major player in dream research; her working notes have surely been of some use to you by now."

"I became a dreamweaver by accident, really," Becky admits. "I honestly have no idea how I'm doing this."

"I'm not surprised. Most reach this plane during casual dreaming and have no inkling of its true nature. We dreamweavers are instinctively born with the knowledge of how to explore or exploit Parabola's infinite possibilities."

"Your brother's threatening the sanity of everyone I know through their dreams; I'm here to put a stop to it, one way or another. That's all. I don't care about exploring or exploiting anything right now."

"You would've come here eventually nonetheless. Though it certainly doesn't hurt to have resources to make the transition easier, such as the Phoenix Foundation."

Becky quickly sets down her teacup. It's scary how much Ashton resembles her brother, with that smirk.

Though she can't lay her finger on it, there's something about this arrangement that reminds her of the spread Murdoc laid out for MacGyver in the apartment, before the mineshaft incident. What started out as innocuous teatime conversation is feeling more and more like pointed interrogation.

She remembers the last version of Mission City she'd visited, which had turned out to be one of Murdoc's traps. Even then it was apparent he'd lost control of it early on, as his sister was revealed to be the more treacherous of the pair.

Was the woman now facing her across a plate of scones the same Ashton from the coffee shop? Could this be a trap after all? The implications send a shiver down her spine.

Surreptitiously she starts teasing out patterns in the dreamscape, searching for a point where it could be unraveled sufficiently to enable escape.

"I know what you're doing, Miss Grahme. There's no need for that, I assure you. As I said before, I have no intention of harming you, your uncle or any of your friends, in dreams or the waking world. You have my word."

Becky withdraws, but not without finding a weak spot and holding onto it, just in case. "Sorry if I don't trust you. But given past experiences with your brother, you can understand my caution."

"Of course I do. Like you I'm here to stop Winifred from fully utilizing the dreamlore he's acquired. The implications for the real world would be devastating if he succeeds. We'd have more success working together, instead of alone."

Sounds reasonable enough. And yet there's that lingering memory, of her raising the shotgun.

There's a saying, about the enemy of one's enemy being a friend. Yet that's not always the case, is it?

"Trusting a stranger's a dangerous proposition, Beck," she can hear her uncle saying. "But sometimes you gotta take the chance."

Becky wants to trust Ashton, she really does. No one except for Murdoc's played her false so far, after all. Ironic considering how prevalent illusions and deceit are in Parabola.

Though so is actual truth, to be fair.

Wouldn't hurt to take precautions anyway, right? For peace of mind, if nothing else.

"All right."

"Splendid. Shall we get started, then?"

They step outside, into perpetual English summertime.

"It's pretty," Becky says.

Ashton wistfully glances around the farm. "I suppose so. Winifred and I were both born here. Then our mother died, and Father sold the farm and found a job in Liverpool. Never remarried, just took to drinking and beating us whenever he felt like it."

"I'm sorry." With a shiver Becky recalls dusty blankets in an abandoned factory, cold metal against her wrists and ankles. The sting of a hand across her cheek, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.

Still the stuff of occasional nightmares.

(Murdoc had called her Ashton at times during that ordeal, now she thought about it. Though until now she'd never understood why.)

Ashton shrugs. "It was a long time ago. Winifred did his best to protect me when things got too bad. But eventually we couldn't take it anymore, and ran away. He sent me to live with an aunt in the Lake District, while heading off to seek his fortune elsewhere. I honestly believed I'd forgotten everything until I arrived in Parabola; this must've taken shape from my earliest memories."

Try as she might, Becky can't recall how long it's been since she herself first entered Parabola. More and more memories of the real world are slipping from her grasp the longer she dreams, despite the silver cord's protection. It's starting to feel like she's always been here, a scary prospect to say the least.

She reaches inside, lightly touching the connection.

 _Hey Unc, are you still there?_

 _I'm here._

 _Please don't let me forget who I am. I don't want to be lost here forever._

 _Never. I'll bring you back when you're ready. Count on it._

 _I love you._

 _Love you too. Be brave, sweetheart. You can do this._

The conversation brings her comfort. Uncle Mac would never let her down.

"Ah, well," Ashton says briskly. "This is hardly the time to be wallowing in childhood memories, now is it? We'd best be off."

Snaps her fingers. A trim, two-seater airship materializes before them. Wood paneling and brass in abundance. Plush velvet cushions.

Becky's impressed. "Not my usual way of getting around Parabola, but it's very nice."

"Oh, mine neither. Still, it's an easier means of ensuring we both arrive at the same destination, isn't it? Climb in. Let's find my brother."

"Um, where are we going?"

"I have an idea where Winifred might be. We had an imaginary realm once; I wonder if exists here. Fancy an adventure?"

Becky gives a wry chuckle despite herself. "If you know who my uncle is, then there's no need to ask."

The airship rises, hovers briefly, disappears.

As does the dreamscape. Widowmaker, Sussex farm and all.


	26. Try to remember

_Note from deepandlovely dark: the which ended up as not actually a sequel to Tanista's gift fic for me, "Let Me Bid You Farewell"_

 _but there are evident traces of it in this chapter, nonetheless._

* * *

There's something he's forgotten. Sort of an important thing, Jack catches himself thinking- a word, an idea, a delight. Maybe something he's forgotten to do for Mike. Sweet Mike, who he loves better than anybody else in the whole world; now wouldn't that be a pity, after all she's done for him?

"I must be getting on some," he says to his wife. "Did I mention anything I was going to do today, that I didn't?"

"Nope," Mike says cheerfully. She places the roast chicken on the table, where it's lit lusciously by the setting sun. Always has a thoughtful touch like that. "Another lazy Saturday, you said- now, I don't know how you do it. All that relaxing would drive me crazy."

"C'mon, you know what kinda guy I was when you married me." His mouth waters, as he picks up the carving knife and starts slicing: sage and onion stuffing, subtle overtures of thyme. "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts now."

"Never," Mike says, kissing him. "You're the only one for me, you know that."

"Oh? You were chasing Mac for long enough."

"Everybody does," she says, sighing a little. "The eternal unobtainable, that's him all over. Tell you what. Either of us is allowed to cheat with him, but they have to invite the other one along, how's that?"

"Mike!"

"Yeah, hon?"

"It's a deal." He passes her dripping drumsticks, takes the wings for himself. Crispy, chewy. Bland.

Bland?

Jack crosses his arms, leans back in a huff. "Murdoc, for god's sake get it right! How are you supposed to mess up my head properly, if you can't even get the basics down?"

Mike freezes, mid-gesture; the low hum of lapping waves stops abruptly. Murdoc steps out from behind the staircase, fiddling with a remote control and looking distinctly annoyed. "And what was wrong with the illusion this time, then?"

It's a gamble, every time the rush of memory returns, how many more goes of this he can stand. Every time his subconscious grabs onto a discrepancy like this, he's just giving Murdoc more ammo to use against him; but if he lets things like this slide, he's in danger of never remembering himself again.

 _I'm not the hero. Maybe that's Mac, or Nikki or Becky, but it sure isn't me. All I have to do is keep my head above water until the hero shows up._

 _Right? Right._

"Hullo, this is Texas? And not even actual Texas, just some kinda weird composite you've jammed together out of shoreside LA and bits of my childhood- well, lemme tell you something, that ought to include hot chili rub chicken like I remember. The kind I used to like snitching off food carts- well, maybe you can't manage that properly. But at least gimme some barbecue sauce to spice things up, sheesh."

"You don't like sage and onion stuffing," Murdoc says incredulously. "Dalton, you're an outright barbarian."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, try it again."

 _Zwip._

"I decided I couldn't be bothered cooking today," Mike says. "Why don't we go out for double chocolate ice cream and call that dinner instead?"

"You're not only the cutest wife on the face of the earth, you're also real smart."

But Jack's frowning as he says it. There's something very important he's forgotten.

Oh, well. It'll come to him.

* * *

They live on a sweet little houseboat, anchored off of the Gulf Coast. Their bank account is full to bursting, from the proceeds of Mike's exotic orchid-growing business. Everything is perfect.

"Everything is completely wrong," Jack says surreptitiously into the phone. Glances around nervously, even though he'd taken two buses and a cab crosstown to be sure he wasn't followed. "You gotta help me. Something horrible's happened to Mike."

He was expecting Mac's peals of laughter, but it doesn't make it any less annoying to listen to.

"Come on, Jack. She was on the phone with me just the other day, congratulating me for the engagement to Nikki. Sure sounded like the woman I remember."

"But it's not, I tell you! Our Mike was smart, and sassy, and she had a lot of better things to do with her life then sit around nursemaiding me all day! Something's wrong!"

"You know," Mac says, sounding a bit bored, "there's this psychological disorder where people think their loved ones have been replaced by annoyingly similar dopplegangers. Given the odds, I'm thinking it's more likely you've got that, than that anything's happened to Mike."

"Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot. How about putting Becky on the line, huh? At least I can expect some sympathy out of her."

"She's not here. Camping with friends of hers."

"And another thing, has your niece turned into a social butterfly all a sudden? The last six times I've called you, she's been out, or skiing, or singing, or a million other excuses-"

"You mean six. Like you just said- y'know, Jack, teenagers do have independent lives? And so do I, for that matter."

"Then get me off your back by actually listening. I dunno, have some of your friends at Phoenix check on Mike. Anything."

There's a long sigh at the other end. "If it'll make you happy. Sure. See you around, Jack."

Phoenix. Phoenix phoenix phoenix- what the hell is a phoenix- oh, right. A city in Arizona. Not too interesting.

At least he's remembered it, though.

* * *

He's been lolling around on the couch too much, watching daytime television and eating potato chips. Waxing fat and unhappy.

"I wish I did something," Jack says, filling up the watering can. It is completely unnecessary- Mike could handle the greenhouse all by herself, and always has before- but at least it's movement, doing something. "Like you do, some mad burning passion for work."

"But that's not you," Mike says, sympathetically. "Face it, sweetheart, your role in life is to sit around and be catered to by the working stiffs. Good thing, too. It's not like you have the stamina for anything else."

That rings false, somewhere very deep inside him; he flushes hot with the sudden awareness that he has more than enough capacity for concentration, sure and intense, if only the right- _something-_ would come along.

Only he can't think of anything like that, and a certain uncomfortable hollowness invades him again, as has been happening more and more often lately. Mike's right; he's spent his whole life being a lazy good-for-nothing who can't be bothered to leave the house six days out of seven. It's lucky he has her to cling to.

 _Zwip._

Murdoc charges down the greenhouse aisle, ripping plants from trays. "Dalton, do you not have the slightest idea what an orchid actually looks like? This here? This is a violet. And this one is a petunia. And that monstrosity over there, which your make-believe wife is so dutifully watering, I haven't the slightest idea what sort of horticultural disaster you've stumbled across but it is in no way, shape or form even remotely an orchid!"

Jack shrugs. "You're only making life harder for yourself now."

"A job worth doing," the assassin declares, pressing a dying violet against his brow, "is worth doing well. Otherwise I'd shoot MacGyver through the head and have done with."

"Thanks for being a perfectionist," Jack says; and catches himself slightly by surprise to realise how sincere he's being.

"You're welcome." Also sincere. There is a moment of mutual confusion.

"But that one," he says hastily, "it was just an idea I had. When I heard about green-winged orchids, I sorta formed this notion what they might look like. Maybe?"

"It was completely mistaken. They're purple, they're discreet, and they certainly don't have huge gaudy bits sticking off them at all angles," Murdoc says, tearing plants off a vertical growth board. "This is worse than a holiday lighting display."

"Not holiday. A….ah. Never mind."

For a moment, the intricate tangle of colours seemed to light up something in his memory, but the plants are all on the floor now, and his memory's deserted him again.

"So I talked with Mac's friends about you," Mike's saying.

Mike. Yes. Right.

"And they did a checkup on me, just like you asked. You know what?"

"Nope."

"I'm going to have a baby."

" _Murdoc!"_

"That," the assassin says, "was considerably faster than usual. Are you learning?"

"I can't stop you using Mike's image to get at me," Jack hisses at him. "I know that. I know she wouldn't blame me for what I can't help- but damned if I'll let you mock her in that way. You don't get to do that to her. Not even in a dream."

"Or what?" Murdoc asks, contemptuous. "If you had a way out of here, you'd have deployed it by now. You can't stop me."

"I can run away from Mike. Lose myself so far away, even you wouldn't be able to catch me. And then your whole scheme, whatever it is, has to be worse than useless."

"Why would you want to? Lazy as her characterisation is," Murdoc says, casually indifferent, "this is a reasonable match for a body you fancied. She feeds you. She's adequate for the thoroughly low-brow individual you are, there's no conceivable reason for you to abandon her."

"No reason for my mother to abandon me, either," Jack snaps; and the greenhouse vanishes, under the sudden onslaught -

no vocabulary for this, neither feelings nor thoughts nor emotions. Hopeless, undefinable ache that comes from hearing train whistles (why?), memory of a memory of near-tears over a motherly lily-of-the-valley perfume (third lay, on a twilit park bench), a hundred real schemes and a thousand imagined ones to keep himself safe and happy, because if he left it up to others there'd be nothing but dull-edged hunger and shards of broken trust (rage)

And the rage, velvet coils in waiting, that he'd packed securely away as a young child. Because rage just wasn't what he wanted Jack Dalton to be. But there it remains, nonetheless, and if he has to become that - if he's forced to become it, to escape this abuse-

( _repeating mistakes; Mac keeps trying to die in an accident, Becky needs to be a dreamer. What was their mistake, Murdoc? How are you going to be caught?_ )

"Enough," Murdoc says, in quiet tones, and restores normality. Though only to an extent: the sky above them is night now, and Mike is gone. "Enough. I'll let you wake up now."

Jack doesn't even stop to ask the catch.

* * *

Awake again, yes. Mac's sure of it, Nikki's sure of it.

Jack's not sure of it, until he dizzily rests a hand against Becky and feels his wrist tingling oddly. Not unpleasant, but he moves away quickly.

"There's something I've forgotten," he says, a little weakly.

Nikki spares him the time for a look that's only half-annoyed. "What?"

"What the heck is it that I do for a living?"

"…you're a pilot. You've seriously forgotten that?"

For a moment, what she's saying makes perfect sense. Of course he's a pilot. That's what he does.

But as the thought of flying sinks in, all those images of rising away from the ground, vertigo envelopes him, thick and hard enough to choke him. How did he do this? How did he ever dare?

"Can't be," Jack forces out. "I'm afraid of heights."

"Nonsense," Mac says. "You were always fine with those, it was me who couldn't stand them…I mean, can't…"

There is a difference between Mac's silences when he's thinking, and when he's listening, and when he's just sitting around enjoying the hockey results, and one of the main problems about being a friend of his is distinguishing the varied flavours of same. This one is not wholesome.

"Come on," Jack implores. "Go find one. Roof of the building should be high enough."

Mac vanishes; Nikki helps him down from the impossibly dizzying height of the chair. Resting against the safe, solid ground, listening to the hum of machinery.

"I'll find you a pillow."

"Don't bother."

They compromise; he curls up on one of Becky's extra quilts, his head propped a little by the bunched material. Down here, the nausea settles; his head starts to clear. Maybe, maybe it'll be okay.

Before he knows it (too soon), Mac's back. Kneeling in front of him, with his usual polite indifference for formalities.

"You were right, Jack," he says. "Six floors up, and I didn't blink. It's gone."

"This is Murdoc's doing, isn't it?" Nikki says, her analytical zeal much in evidence. "He's upped his game. He's causing effects that persist even after the dream's over."

Jack pulls a corner of quilt over himself, starts to quietly weep. Mac takes his hand and holds it tightly, staring at the comatose figure on the bed.

 _Please, princess. Please._

 _Cause I don't think any of us can stand much more of this…_


	27. Into the woods

Ashton's strides through the forest are long, measured, no hesitation in her step. It's hard for Becky to keep up sometimes.

Not for the first time she questions her decision to accompany Murdoc's sister in the search for her brother. She still doesn't trust her to play fair, but reckons she wouldn't have been able to investigate as much of Parabola on her own as quickly as they have together in Ashton's trim airship.

Impossible mountains. Upside-down seas. Singing rivers. Sprawling, empty shells of lost civilizations, both human and nonhuman. Realms made entirely of fire, or water, or air.

Marvels her own mother must've wondered at, in her explorations for Project Cosmogone.

Yet it barely scratches the surface of what's possible in this boundless realm.

Like this section they're exploring right now, seemingly consisting of nothing but trees. Every variety possible within an old-growth forest, conifers and broadleaves mixed together. Ferns and other woodland plants thrive in thick loamy soil, under the overarching canopy, so high up and so grown together they can barely see the sky.

And far from silent.

Dryads and greenjacks, bizarre assemblages of flesh and vegetation. Woodland creatures, conventional species along with those straddling the indistinct line between man and beast. Neolithic humans, staring at them wide-eyed from a distance. None of them hinder the dreamers' passage, nor do they help.

Becky can't shake the feeling they're being watched by far more than the local fauna. Perhaps everything is sentient here. The notion sends a faint chill down her spine.

She's reminded of stories from a college course in world mythology she took last spring. Legends of a primal First Forest with a massive tree at its very heart, roots winding down into the netherworld and branches stretching up into the heavens. Binding the possibilities of That-Which-Was, That-Which-Is and That-Which-Will-Be together, sustaining all creation.

(Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life. Forest as the very birthplace of Mystery.)

In a distant, idyllic past mankind dwelt in the shade of that tree for untold aeons, until some dark sin or distant shame drove them out, into the world at large. Eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, expulsion from the Garden. Paradise lost.

Myths, legends and anecdotes that perhaps hide a larger, ancestral truth.

In the waking world there may yet remain the last few vestiges of ancient forests, as old as the last major Ice Age. Strange things have been rumored to occur in such places- people disappearing, never to be seen again. Ghostly apparitions, bizarre creatures. Dreams and myths becoming reality.

No surprise to her if they truly exist. Go far enough back in time, fact and fiction practically blend together in the human imagination, anyway. Much as they do in Parabola itself.

* * *

Becky knows there's nothing to fear, ordinarily. MacGyver's a true outdoorsman, he's taught her how to appreciate the intrinsic beauty of nature, and to respect its dangers.

This archetypal realm, however, bears no relationship to any woodland she knows from the waking world. Pure untamed wilderness. As dark and deep and mysterious as a forest can get, existing eternally within an arboreal dreamtime.

She doesn't know which aspect of Parabola unnerves her more, endless ocean or endless forest. All she can do is trust that her guide knows where she's going. The sister of her nemesis.

Scant comfort, all things considered.

* * *

She struggles through tangled darkness, tripping over roots. Forcing her way through dense thickets, blindly hoping Ashton's still forging ahead.

Suddenly emerging into a clearing. Her guide's nowhere in sight.

Shafts of cosmogone illuminate a long-abandoned cemetery, stained gray stones poking through thistle-covered mounds. Ruins of a church, centuries old. Arched windows, ragged line where the roof had fallen in. A bell tower at one end, stone slowly yielding under creeping tentacles of ivy.

Beautiful, in a way that's more than a little creepy at the same time.

Murdoc steps into the clearing, regards her coolly. "Miss Grahme. How annoyingly persistent you are. All the obstacles I place in your path, and still you manage to overcome them. You're entirely too much like your uncle."

"Thanks," she says dryly. "I'll take it as a compliment."

"However did you find me?"

"Wasn't hard to follow your trail, all that death and destruction you leave in your wake." With a little help from his sister, but she won't say that out loud.

He smirks. "Ah, yes. What fun I've had, traipsing through Parabola. Wearing down your uncle and his hangers-on from within, bit by delightful bit."

"And yet you're no closer to your goal."

"Closer than you think, my dear. It's a game of mental attrition; already I'm exerting a measure of control over certain aspects of their lives in the waking world. Why, you should see what I've managed with Jack Dalton alone. With his love of heights turned to terror, the man's becoming a quivering coward. MacGyver will soon have no choice but to submit, with the sanity of his nearest and dearest threatened."

Becky seethes with anger. Not gonna happen, not on her watch.

"I've had enough, Murdoc. Your reign of terror ends here and now. Leave my family alone!"

She raises her hands, testing patterns in the dreamscape. The stones begin to shift as she exerts her power. The very trees surrounding them seem to crawl forward.

Murdoc remains unimpressed. "Was this your plan, sister dear? Allow her to soften me up with mindless chatter before taking a shot, leaving your hands clean? How very unsporting of you."

Ashton emerges from behind a decrepit mausoleum. Calmly, as if she's been expecting this all along. "Needs must, brother dear. Use whatever it takes to accomplish one's goal, remember? You taught me that."

"Indeed I did. So, what's the reason for our impromptu reunion? Come to give me a rap on the knuckles, for playing in your sandbox without permission?"

"I should never have allowed you access to my research. This dreamwalking jaunt of yours simply must stop."

"Whatever for? I'm having so much fun."

"You promised me you only wanted to experiment on one of MacGyver's dreams, no more than that. I should never have allowed you further access to Parabola."

"Oh come now, sister. Admit it, you're jealous. I'm more accomplished a dreamweaver than you'll ever be; it's only a matter of time before I can enact more long-lasting changes in the waking world."

Ashton's eyes narrow. "Don't you know how dangerous that is? Any blunders you've already made will surely have dangerous consequences. Desist now, or I'll have you pumped so full of Somnocil you won't be able to achieve apotheosis again no matter how hard you try."

"Nonsense," he scoffs. "You have no idea where my body is."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

Silence ensues.

Finally he snorts in contempt. "Doesn't matter now. All I want is MacGyver. And nothing will stand in my way."

Oh, for god's sake. What is it with Murdoc, that he has to indulge in so much pointless melodrama? Like a bloody cartoon villain, sometimes. Really annoying.

"All right, that's it!" Becky raises her hands again, drawing on the dreamscape's power. A thicket of hawthorn trees shoots up around him from the ground, growing at an impossible rate and imprisoning him within their rapidly interlocking branches.

Murdoc quickly dissolves everything with a sweep of his hand. "Bravely done, little one. But not good enough. Remember this, from our last little get-together in the waking world?"

Thick tendrils of ivy rise from the soil to wrap around her, pinioning her arms and legs. Raising her from the ground, they begin to tighten around her as she struggles. She yelps in pain as they dig into her skin, hindering even the slightest gesture to free herself.

"That's enough, brother," Ashton says wearily. "Hurting her wasn't part of our agreement."

"If you insist, dear sister." With a smirk the assassin waves his hand; Becky grunts as she hits the ground, hard, still bound in ivy. "I'd love to stay and chat some more, but must dash. There's a certain someone to startle in the vicinity of Serenity, Montana, and then it's time to move on to the next phase of my plan. Care to join me?"

"Ashton, no!" Becky yells. "Don't leave me alone here!"

The blond woman turns to her and shrugs in a dismissive manner, as if she doesn't matter anymore. "I'm sorry, I truly am. But he is my older brother, and blood's thicker than water. Perhaps our paths will cross again, someday. Farewell."

Before Becky can entreat further she gestures, sending up a hail of stone, soil and thistle in front of them. The force of the eruption throws her backwards.

Her vision goes dark.


	28. Shortbread, crumbling

This is his fault.

"It is not," Nikki says briskly. But her eyes are dark with exhaustion, and he knows she's only saying it to soothe him. Just about the last thing he wants, right now.

"I can't let this go on any longer. I can't just sit by and let everyone I care about slip away." He doesn't look at the small figure curled on the chair next to him, fighting sleep with fading intensity. Terrified of what else might be lost after another dip into oblivion.

"MacGyver. Trust Becky."

"Nikki, it's been days. Time we don't have any more. And I-"

He stops then, as the tv flickers into life, showing some scene of wooded groves. Becky. Ashton, too.

And Murdoc.

Mac listens with dull, fretful despair, wondering what more can go wrong. Whether he'll have to watch his niece die and not be able to help at all. But listening intently because paying attention is what he does. Looking for details, trying to find some slightest hint or clue or hope that there might be something, anything to be done-

"Oh my god," Nikki says. "You heard that?"

"I heard it!"

He hugs her; she kisses him. They laugh like little kids, crazily delighted with each other and the world. _Everything's going to be all right now, everything will be okay._

"She can stop him," Nikki whispers, all her hard-edged self-protection melted away to nothing. "She can threaten him! That means we can stop him."

"Pete's been working overtime on finding Ashton anyway- you know Pete, if anybody can dig her up he can. So if he can find out where she is-"

"You go reason with her," Nikki finishes. "You saved her life, and it's obvious there's no love lost between those two. Get out there, MacGyver. Get her on our side, whatever it takes."

He's yanking the door open, when-

"You promised," Jack mumbles, hardly intelligible. "Remember? To make sure Becky had a lifeline home."

That stops him in his tracks. "Yeah, but-"

"Will you trust me to take care of them?" Nikki asks.

He's trusted all sorts of people over the years, even implicitly; but this is different. The two people who've needed the most looking after, over the course of his life; both here, both so vulnerable.

"I do."

She breaks out laughing afresh; and ten minutes and several miles down the road, he finally works out why.

Oh, well.

It'll be good to share the joke with her, when he gets back...

* * *

Of all the many reasons to be grateful for his work and friendship with Pete Thornton, being able to track down a foreign dream-researcher at the drop of a hat has to count as one of the most ridiculous ever.

 _Bless you, Pete._

"You wanted to talk to me?" Ashton asks.

Same woman he remembers, if a little less fluffy now they're on even footing. She pours out tea for him, offers a plate of biscuits; he refuses, leans in intently.

"Yeah. Look. We both know this whole Murdoc thing's gone out of control, right?"

"I haven't the slightest influence over his attempts to kill you in interesting ways," she says, quite coolly. Family resemblance, all right.

"I wouldn't figure you would- that's not the problem, I can take care of myself in the normal way of things. But this dreamscape stuff's beyond me." Open and honest as he knows how to be; might as well make a strength of his weakness. "I seem to be pretty resilient, for whatever reason-"

"I'd expect that," Ashton says, nodding as she sips her drink. "You're adept with possibilities, happenstance, evaluating multiple courses of action. The patterns of dreamweaving would naturally distress you less, especially since-" and here her voice sours, "my brother is so insistently unimaginative. Faced with the infinity of choices offered in Parabola, and he can't think of anything better to do with it than chase after the possibilities of one singular individual."

"But the people I care about haven't been so lucky. My co-workers, my niece, my best friend- he's already woken up different. Got one of my phobias now that he never had before, and I never even noticed it go."

Her eyes widen. "I...did not think he'd be that stupid. Or capable. Murdoc must be further along with his rites than even I'd guessed."

"Can you tell me how to fix it?"

"Frankly, no," she says, not without sympathy. "We've taken our researches slowly, cautiously, inching along and drawing back at the least sign of trouble. You can understand how different our procedures are than my brother's."

"He's gotta be stopped. Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"It's a question of raw power. All that's stopped him up to now is his own inability to imagine the right circumstances for you two to get together- and once he's sorted that out to his own satisfaction, he'll put every bit of his will into forcing it to happen. And as you're aware, his will is rather considerable...nobody I know could summon up the sheer intensity of desire to oppose that. With one noticeable and very intriguing exception. Your niece."

"Becky. Huh."

It's with a grave sense of disloyalty, that he realises his own surprise at the words. Telling Becky that of course she could take on Murdoc- had he not believed in her all along, then?

(The faintest image of a silver rope, stretched across an ocean and snapping, flickers across his mind and vanishes.)

"No disrespect to your sister," Ashton says, and pauses frowning. "No, actually, every disrespect to your sister. It's one thing shaping your own child into a weapon of the Great Game, it's another leaving them in the dark about it."

He tells himself that it's because of his general dislike of violence, that he doesn't fly off the handle at this point. Somehow, it doesn't sound as convincing a reason as usual. "That wasn't Allison's style."

"Suit yourself," Ashton says, shrugging. "Are you sure you won't have any tea?"

"I'm sure."

"All right. If I had her power, her gifts and shapings, all the encoded patterns that make up a born dreamweaver, I could take down my brother quite easily. It wouldn't do Becky any harm to give it up, her conscious mind would be completely unaffected- and that's the part that matters, isn't it? If you would talk to her, ask her to give over her dreams to me, I could promise that you and she and everyone else you care about would be able to sleep in perfect safety from now on."

Perfect.

Maybe too good to be true. "Suppose you're helping out your brother, though. Suppose you're actually just trying to get me to give away the only safeguard we have."

"An excellent question," Ashton agrees, wiping biscuit crumbs off her mouth with a napkin. "Come with me."

Below the elegant breakfast nook, the cellar is cool, white, well lit. There's several beds down here, with equipment surprisingly similar to that of the room in Los Angeles he's so recently left.

In one of them is Murdoc. Sleeping like a baby.

"I can't wake him up, mid-dream- I'd risk killing him, unmooring his mind from his body. Or perhaps the better word," Ashton murmurs. "Haven't. I can't...I can't bring myself to kill him. Even knowing what he does. Even knowing everything."

She points him towards a plug. "But you could. I might not even try to stop you."

It's simple. Simple as one of his fixes. As the round, ugly hole of a waiting gun.

"I don't do this," MacGyver says, slowly. "I don't kill people."

"If anybody can duck the obvious solution, make the miraculous happen...why. Talk to Becky for me, that's all. Convince her- and I swear, nobody needs to die."

He believes her. Not implicitly- but because she's so blunt about her craving for more power, more scope for discoveries. It makes sense what she wants Becky's abilities for. And because blood is blood, and he is positive that like her brother, she'll keep to a spoken oath.

"You're positive it won't hurt Becky."

"Well, she'll never remember another dream in her life," Ashton says. "But then, many people don't. Anything else?"

"I guess not."

All he has to do is go home, and wake up his princess.

Easiest job of his life.


	29. Follow your heart

Trees and more trees. The golden glow of cosmogone, far overhead.

Becky blinks, struggles to a sitting position, hands and feet still bound by ivy.

No ruins. No graveyard.

Tastes the sixty-four winds. No trace of Murdoc or Ashton anywhere.

Things aren't exactly looking up, mission-wise.

How is she gonna get herself out of this latest mess, anyhow? If Uncle Mac were in her place, he'd probably find a sharp rock or something already within reach to cut through the thick tendrils. Solve the problem all by himself.

But there are no handy rocks nearby, and her folks always said there's no shame in asking for help if you really need it.

"I...I'm sorry for asking," she tells the forest at large, feeling more than a little ridiculous. "I mean you no harm, despite what just happened. But, um...could someone give me a hand, here? Please?"

Predictably, there's no answer, though the sense of being watched is stronger than before.

So, what would Mac advise her to do next- or Harry, for that matter?

Relax, they'd say. Take a deep breath. Don't panic. Get your bearings, find a way to get loose. Pick up Murdoc's trail again. Figure out Ashton's real plan.

Easier said than done, really.

"Looks like you got yourself into a spot of trouble, kiddo."

A familiar, beloved face smiles down at her. Grizzled features, cotton canvas field coat over fishing vest and flannel shirt, black wide-brimmed fedora.

Her eyes widen. "Harry?"

"Yep."

"Not that it isn't great to see you, but aren't you supposed to be...I mean, you're already-"

"Dead as a doornail? Course I am." Eyes twinkle in mirth. "Parabola's full of multiple possibilities, remember. Including your great-grandfather coming to lend a hand when you need it most. Now c'mon, get on your feet."

"How? I'm all tied up, can't move an inch."

"Nonsense. It's a dream, ain't it? Remember what Doc Beatty said, back at the beginning of your lessons?"

Of course! She forgot the two most fundamental facts of lucid dreaming: _Real world rules don't apply in dreams. Anything is possible._

She doesn't have to be bound, if she doesn't want to be.

Becky closes her eyes, concentrates. The ivy vanishes.

She flexes her arms and legs, feeling a little stupid. How could she have forgotten?

"Easy," Harry says, helping her up. "You got distracted. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, so to speak."

She groans. "I forgot Unc got his penchant for awful jokes from you."

"Least he inherited something useful from me," he chuckles. "Don't I get a hug, now?"

He's so solid and warm, just like Becky remembers. Never mind it's all a dream.

The feeling of being held like this- even by someone who's technically deceased- brings her comfort. Followed by a wave of homesickness so acute it hurts.

God, she wants to wake up. Her strength's fading fast. And she's failing her mission, to boot.

All of a sudden it's too strange, too much to handle, and Becky gives up. Starts bawling, right then and there.

"Hey now, what's all this? Relax, kiddo. I've got you." He gently runs a hand down her back as she sobs, rumbling soothing words.

Finally she looks up, blinking away tears. Right into a gaze as kind and perceptive as his grandson's.

God, she misses him so much. Both of them.

"All right, enough with the waterworks." Harry offers a handkerchief and she wipes her eyes. "Feel better?"

"Yeah," she says sheepishly. "Sorry about staining your favorite fishing vest."

"Don't worry. Looks like you needed a good long cry. Got a bit much there for a second, huh?"

"The whole thing's just so nuts, you know? I'm way in over my head with this dreamweaving thing. Mom's notes make it sound so easy, but I have no real idea what I'm doing. Not even sure I have what it takes to defeat Murdoc."

"Now whatever gave you that idea?"

It's ridiculous, spilling her heart out to her dead great-grandfather in the middle of a spooky forest.

Yet who else does she have to confide in, anyway?

"I thought I was ready to confront him, and without breaking a sweat he rendered me completely helpless, wrapped up so tight I couldn't defend myself. And what's worse, Ashton didn't even lift a finger to help me. I had a gut feeling before not to trust her, and I completely ignored it. She's his sister, for crying out loud- I should've been thinking ahead. Now they're off together, causing who knows what damage, and it'll be all my fault."

Harry frowns at her. "Here I thought only my grandson capable of such fool notions. You're not responsible for anything either of them do, Becky. Not by a long shot."

"I wish I could believe you. My first official mission for Phoenix, and I've blown it. I'm letting everyone down."

"Now don't you go doin' that," he admonishes. "You're Bud's niece, but you're Allison's daughter, too; you know better than to wallow in self-pity."

"Mom knew what she was doing, in this crazy place. I sure don't. My one chance to go on the offensive, and look where it got me."

"Want some free advice?"

She smiles faintly. "I'd pay for it."

"No use worrying 'bout things that don't happen until they do. Best you can do is pick up the pieces and make the most of what's around you."

"Sounds like what Unc's always told me."

"Of course. Where you think he got it from?" He smiles and winks, then sobers. "You were wonderin' earlier if you got what it takes to defeat that Murdoc guy. Think for a moment, about Bud and his friends. What qualities of theirs d'you admire the most?"

That's easy. "Mac's determination. Jack's cunning. Nikki's practicality. Penny's optimism. Pete's loyalty."

He snaps his fingers, and a full-length mirror appears. "Take a look in that. What d'you see in yourself?"

She glances, sighs and looks away, crossing her arms. "Fear. Uncertainty. Stubbornness. Impotence. Indecisiveness. Isolation. Guilt. Uselessness."

"That's not what I see. Or what anyone else does, for that matter." Large, capable hands (so much like Mac's, yet more gnarled with age) cover her shoulders, gently turn her back towards her reflection. "Take another look."

The image shifts. Determination. Cunning. Practicality. Optimism. Loyalty. Bravery. Compassion. Kindness.

"You got what it takes, kiddo," Harry says softly as he dismisses the mirror, "and anyone who tells you otherwise is a damn fool. You can deal with whatever life throws at you."

"If you say so," she says dubiously. "But there's no way I can possibly find Murdoc now, before he makes his final move. He's practically unstoppable."

Harry frowns. "You tellin' me you're ready to give up? Leave everyone out there defenseless against that crackpot? Bud would never do that."

"I know. But honestly I'm not even sure where to go from here."

"Just so happens I got somethin' here that might help." He reaches into a pocket of his fishing vest, pulls out a round brass instrument, as big as her palm. On its outer rim mystical symbols are engraved, surrounding a crystal dial with a diagram of cardinal points and two needles- one gold and one silver- in the center. "An invention of Allison's, when she used to go exploring in these parts. Called it a dreamline compass."

She takes it from him, frowning. "Mom made this? How does it work?"

"Not like a regular compass, if that's what you're thinking. Shows you where you are, then points to where you need to be."

"But how?"

"Just follow your heart. Trust your gut. And Becky-"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry, you're doing fine. You can deal with that fool Murdoc; you'll know what to do when the time comes. Now I gotta get back to my fishing. Tell Bud I said hi when you see him next, won't you?"

"I will." She smiles, gives him one final hug. "Goodbye, Grandpa, and thanks for the pep talk. Love you."

"You're welcome, kiddo. Love you too."

As soon as he's gone the needles on the dreamline compass begin to glow. The gold remains stationary but the silver drifts in one direction, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Pointing the way to where she needs to be, apparently.

 _Follow your heart. Trust your gut._

Leave it to Harry to give her the most sensible advice she's heard in a long time.

* * *

The compass points the way through the enchanted forest, until Becky finally reaches a silver bridge arching high over a narrow gorge, the rapids in the river below churning water into white foam.

She takes a tenuous step forward, laying a hand on the railing. The bridge starts to quiver, as if during an earthquake.

"Um, may I cross?" She feels a little foolish, to be honest. Taking to an inanimate object.

A reply more felt than heard. _Do you belong on the other side?_

"Yes," she says with a confidence that surprises her. "Yes, I do."

The bridge settles. Apparently she's been granted passage.

A path on the opposite side leads through another forest, this one lighter, gentler. Soon the trees begin to thin, until Becky emerges onto a ridge overlooking a broad valley.

The path turns into a road, ambling past flowery meadows, small farms with orchards and cozy cottages, charmingly rustic villages. Eventually leading to a city, walled in mellow stone and gated with oak and iron, buildings roofed with slate or tile. Pennons alternating between blue and silver or red and gold flutter in the breeze from every tower. On cobblestone streets, humans and all manner of magical beings peacefully go about their business.

Like landing straight into the setting of one of her favorite fantasy novels. And though she can't put her finger on it, there's also something hauntingly familiar about the place.

A white stone castle, graceful yet formidable, rises at the very heart of the city, multiple spires stretching high into a cloudless azure sky. Overhead a single flag- quartered with blue, silver, red and gold- proudly waves from the tallest tower.

Nobody balks when she strolls through the open gates. Honestly, she can't even tell if anyone's noticing her or not. It's kinda weird.

The interior is light and airy, high carved walls and ceiling, lush tapestries, elegant furniture and ornate mirrors between tall arching windows. Steps at the far end of the throne room lead to two wooden chairs, one intricately carved with a blue cushion, the other more plain in red.

A man sprawls casually on the steps, noodling on a guitar. Silk shirt the same color of the sky, caramel-hued suede trousers. Golden-brown hair curls around his neck.

He looks up as the last notes fade away, grins. Velvet brown eyes twinkle in amusement.

"Hey, princess. What took you so long?"

Not really her uncle, but just as close. Closer, even. Her _animus_.

"Where am I?"

"You know where you are," he replies calmly. "Think about it."

The Silverspan Bridge over the Whitefoam River, with Darkmaze Woods on the opposite side. The Sweetshade Forest. The Lone Watchtower to the north. The Summer Palace in the south by the Whispering Sea. The forbidding Ironheart Mountains to the east. And Crown City with Whitestar Castle in the center.

The dreamline compass led her here, to her own imaginary kingdom made real in Parabola.

Which begs the question: Is this really where she needs to be?

* * *

A light and airy room with high whitewashed stone walls. Arching windows overlooking a peaceful, pastoral realm. Comfortable furniture.

Becky curls up on the couch, staring into the fire, Mac lounging nearby.

"Are you real?" she asks him. "Is this another parallel reality, or merely my imagination?"

He cocks his head. "Does it really matter?"

"Guess not. Can't help but wonder, though. I'm starting to lose track of the difference between the two."

"Probably a little of both. Though actually there's not much difference, at your level; you've always had the ability, strong enough to give all your dreams life here if you wanted. The realm started taking shape as soon as you first imagined it."

"But that's been at least since I was a kid. So it's been waiting here for me the whole time?"

"You could say that. Helped along a bit by your mom at first, but mostly your doing."

"But why? For what purpose?"

"Think of this as your personal safe space. To give you a chance to recover your strength before facing Murdoc again."

She sighs. "I'm not sure I can defeat him. I'm just not strong enough."

"Didn't Harry set you straight on that? You are, Becky. Only you haven't realized your full potential yet."

"When will that happen?"

"In good time, don't worry about it. Right now you need to rest, regain your confidence."

"You're probably right." A corner of her mouth curves up in a wry smile. "So after all I've been through lately I think I'm due for some quality cuddle time, don't you?"

He grins, draws her close. "Whatever my princess wishes."

The soft stroke of his hand on her hair and the warm devotion in his gaze quickly soothe away her fears.

Yep, this is definitely where she needs to be.

* * *

Non-days pass. Becky leisurely reacquaints herself with dreamweaving techniques developed with Beatty and Morgan, teasing and testing the boundaries until she's much more confident of her abilities. Stretching her senses to their utmost.

There's a hint of menace in the sixty-four winds. Dark rumblings on a distant horizon. The scent of destruction. The taste of covetousness.

Murdoc's about to make another move, and she's the only one who can counter it.

God, it's tempting to just wake up now instead. Savor what time remains with Uncle Mac, before losing him for good to Murdoc's greedy clutches.

The thought turns her stomach. Harry's right about one thing, at least. Mac's never abandoned a mission or left behind anyone in trouble, and neither would she. She's not a quitter.

But not at full potential yet, either. Which needs to be soon, to handle what's coming. Perhaps some kind of shortcut exists. A quick fix.

(The notion makes her smile despite everything. There she goes, thinking like Jack Dalton. Another reason to complete her mission- if only to save whatever's left of the poor guy's sanity, if what Murdoc implied was true.)

A tendril of thought teases her mind, mere suggestion of unimaginable power. A tantalizing promise of fulfillment. Urging her to investigate.

Well. Curiosity always was her weakness.

* * *

A large, perfectly round chamber in the center of the castle, surrounded by curved arches and carved pillars supporting a domed ceiling. Flecks of mica in the walls sparkle, reflecting the otherworldly glow of all the colors of the Parabolan spectrum from a circular pool of churning, shimmering dreamstuff.

Ethereal. Darn near hypnotic, even.

Yet also more than a touch ominous. Reminds her of the bizarre, Stygian-ivory engine of the good dreamship _Clipper_. Raw chaos refined into something useful.

Becky's filled with an overwhelming urge. Steps to the very edge then hesitates, remembering the agony.

Still. It's all in her head, right? Time to get a grip. She can do this.

Steels herself. Takes a deep breath, slips into the pool.

Raw power pours through her body. Pure creation in progress, zinging along every nerve. Hotter than any sun in the universe.

She screams.

* * *

Solid stone against her back. A light touch on her cheek.

"Sweetheart? You okay?"

Becky gasps for air, eyes flying open. Sits up straight, taking in her surroundings. Same stone walls and arches, but the pool's much dimmer now. Far more subdued than earlier.

Mac kneels beside her, smiling gently. "Hi there. Feeling better?"

She blinks. "I...I guess. Still in one piece, anyway."

He sighs in relief. "Good. I was worried, after finding you unconscious. Should've been here to supervise. Sorry."

She pulls away from him, indignant. "You knew this would happen?"

"Sure. Your mom prepared the pool, opened a channel to supply it with dreamstuff. It's what you needed, to fully tap into your potential. Just like on the _Clipper_."

"My _mother_ arranged all this? She knew I'd wind up here in Parabola?" She's aghast.

He shrugs. "There was always the possibility. Didn't know what would be the catalyst, though."

Unbelievable. No, totally believable. Her mom had the gift of anticipation. Planing ahead. Foreseeing her potential as dreamweaver. Laying the foundations for her imaginary realm's existence as a place of succor. Drawing in her own brother to serve as the silver cord.

Becky thinks of her journey so far, Serenity to Mission City to the _Clipper_ to here. Even accounting for influences from Murdoc and MacGyver alike (not to mention Ashton), has every other stage of her journey been more than mere happenstance?

Is there anything, anything at all, that's completely and utterly her own?

She simply doesn't know, which bothers her to no end. She has to do something.

The room grows darker. A loud moaning fills the air. A frisson of danger runs down her spine.

Mac looks up, frowns. "An Alteration's coming."

"A what?"

"A major mindstorm, one with enough destructive potential to change everything. Heading straight towards us."

The menace she felt earlier. Has to be Murdoc. No doubt about it, he's gotta be stopped. Once and for all.

"I gotta go," she mutters, standing up on shaky legs.

"You can't. It's not safe out there. You need to hunker down here for a while, until it blows over."

"The realm's protected though, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah. By multiple layers of shielding, thanks to your mom. But it's you I'm worried about. No guarantee you'll be safe, if you venture out now." He looks at her imploringly, with big brown eyes. "Stay. Please."

Under any other circumstances she'd give in, but now is not the time. "I can't, you know that. I have to face Murdoc and finish this, storm or no storm. You wouldn't give up at a time like this in the waking world, and neither would I."

"But Beck-" He stops, sighs. "All right. Just be careful, okay?"

"I will." She reaches up, kisses him on the cheek. "Thanks for everything, Unc."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he murmurs as she disappears. "Good luck."

* * *

Buffeted by the sixty-four winds, tugging every which way until she's no longer sure where she's going. If this were the waking world she'd be thoroughly motion-sick by now. Fortunately it isn't, and Becky grits her teeth and charges ahead.

The most direct route to reach Murdoc lies straight ahead, through the maelstrom.

Despite her resolve she finds her thoughts drifting, so much she can't think straight. Had her mom foreseen this dream war coming, prepared her only daughter as a weapon? Is this really following her heart, trusting her gut, or was it all planned out before she could even speak?

No matter. Fate or no fate, Alteration or no Alteration, it's time to finish this.

The very eye of the storm looms before her. Murdoc's at the center, she's sure of it. Causing the Alteration by exerting his power, risking the stability of all Parabola by imposing his twisted, all-consuming desire to possess her uncle, instead of simply killing him once and for all.

Not gonna happen. Not if she can help it.

Solid darkness at the heart of the storm, streams of power radiating away from the assassin, feeding the destructive force. He throws his head back and laughs, reveling in the chaos.

He turns as she approaches. Smirks. "Miss Grahme. I've been expecting you."

"This is it, Murdoc," she hisses. "No more. You're going down."

He holds out his hands, as if welcoming a lover. Still smirking. "Then come and get me," he taunts.

"You bet." She summons all her power for one massive assault-

only to feel herself suddenly yanked backwards-

the tug of a silver cord, pulling her away from the maelstrom-

away from Parabola entirely.

"Waking stage achieved. She's back," a technician announces, somewhere in the distance.

"Thank god," a closer, more familiar voice mutters. Nikki, maybe.

The helmet's lifted off. Dr. Beatty looms over her, shines something into her eyes. Becky weakly waves it away, blinking at the stabbing light. "Easy, now. Just checking your vitals."

When Beatty withdraws after more poking and prodding another person comes into view. Ruggedly handsome face, shaggy golden hair, velvet brown eyes. A tentative, relieved smile.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," MacGyver says. "Time to wake up."


	30. Wakefulness

Watching Pete Thornton give somebody a dressing down is, Nikki has always found, a slightly guilty pleasure. He's always intent but fair, loud but not obnoxious, and he doesn't move without knowing what he's talking about. Which means that when he does pitch a fit, it's generally more than justified; and everyone at Phoenix knows it.

"I had an agent on a mission! There was no call to take her off it, especially without my say-so!"

The doctors look concerned, but not unduly so. "MacGyver said to wake her up immediately," Dr Morgan says. "And as he's been our only real guide to Becky's condition, we thought it was in her best interest."

"There wasn't anything wrong," Becky says. She's sitting very still and upright, letting herself be checked over without a word of complaint; but her tone is noticeably crisp. "I was about to take on Murdoc. Finally! And then at the last second- the very last second, Angus here," pointing at her uncle (who winces at her using his first name), "had to go and wake me up!"

"Ooh," Jack says. "Petulant much?"

Nikki almost elbows him, before remembering what a fragile state the pilot (ex-pilot?) is in. Contents herself with a mild glare instead.

"I was saving you," MacGyver says, almost sulkily. "I mean- c'mon, what were you even gonna do to Murdoc?"

"Whatever it took, okay? To make sure that he never hurt any of us, ever again-"

"And I was so scared of that," he cuts in. "Suppose you really did it- suppose you overdid it. Suppose you woke up and told me that halfway across the planet, you'd just murdered a man. Becky, I've never done that. I couldn't think of letting you do that."

"Good riddance if she had!" Jack shouts. "It's about time all you people stopped pussyfooting and dealt with the guy like he deserves!"

Mac doesn't say anything. Just spins round with his fist raised, ready for a blow-

"Calm down already," Nikki says, holding him fast. Not too gently. "You're not making things any better for yourself here."

"I have never seen such a complete palava," Pete says, in absolute disgust. "Four Phoenix agents, behaving like so many kindergarten brats- you three, out in the hall. We'll finish the disciplinary conversation later. In the meantime, I need to talk to the one agent who stands a chance of actually finishing this assignment."

"But she doesn't have to!" Mac almost wails. "Ashton'll do it for us!"

"You cut a deal with Murdoc's sister?" Nikki asks.

"Yeah. Somebody had to." He tries to wiggle out of her grasp, fails (he'll never be a match for her in any kind of combat, and they both know it). Instead he reaches across to his jacket pocket, a little awkwardly, yanks out a piece of golden agate. "Beck."

Gently, almost reasonably. It pulls the teenager right back into her usual habits. "Yeah, Unc?"

"All you gotta do is hold this, and she'll take it all away. Use your- powers, or whatever they are, to deal with Murdoc, make sure that nobody at Phoenix ever has to worry about their dreams ever again. They're pretty organised over in British intelligence."

"You had no authorisation to make a deal like that," Pete snaps. "You're a field agent, you don't get to dictate policy on this scale."

"I went over your head this time," Mac informs him. "Went straight to the board- I knew there had to be another way around this, without involving my niece. Maybe I'd have thought of it sooner, if you hadn't been so excited about dragging her into field work-"

"You wouldn't even have known Ashton was doing dream research, if I hadn't told you," Becky says. Evenly enough. "And besides- I wanted the mission. It was my decision, Unc."

(Nikki can't help admiring her self-control. She'd be giving somebody a piece of her mind right about now, if it was her.)

Jack's looking incredulous. "You wanna let some maniac mad scientist rip out a chunk of your own niece's heart? What happened, did she reach in and drag a piece out of yours first?"

"Enough," Pete says.

That's all; but everybody shuts up.

"If that's the situation now, then we'll put the mission on hold until I can get the lay of the land for you," he says to Becky, in his usual kindly fashion. "And then we can have a discussion about what happens next, and what you actually want to do. Take your time. Get your bearings back."

"Yes, sir."

He turns, holds his hand out. "Now let's see that dream rock, or whatever it is."

Reluctantly, MacGyver relinquishes it; Pete stows it away in his suit pocket. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the troubleshooter says, automatically.

"Now get out of here and cool down, before I decide to put you on indefinite leave without pay. Unless the board's decided to strip me of that power as well?"

MacGyver shrugs. "All right. Long as Becky's okay, that's all that matters."

"I'll take him home," Nikki says. "Make sure he gets some sleep in his own bed- or sofa, as the case may be. And you can finish that dressing down tomorrow, Pete."

"Done."

"It was totally justified," Mac's still muttering, as Nikki drags him out.

"All right," Pete says. "My apologies, doctors."

"Oh, we weren't paying any attention," Dr. Chandrashekar says cheerily. "If we downed tools every time there was a secret agent squabble, we'd never manage."

"I see. Well, then I'll leave you to it," he says. "Becky- whatever's going on, may I ask you not to do anything rash or irreversible? Whatever your uncle has to say on the matter."

"I promise," Becky agrees. "I- I don't want to do anything, right now. Not until I have a better idea what's going on myself."

"Good attitude for a secret agent, knowing when to wait. I only wish I had one who was any good at it-" Pete says with a smile. He reaches for the door. "Speaking of which, you'd better come along, Dalton. No need to have you cluttering up the place."

"Beck," Jack says, rather subdued and not noticeably roguish. "I've been awake for three days. I'm terrified. I'm going to go completely off my rocker if I don't get some sleep soon, and you're the only person I'd trust to make sure nothing else happens to me…I need help."

"Course," she says immediately. "And what d'you know? There's a bed free now."

He manages a half chuckle, as she gets off the bed and neatly remakes the layers of soft hand-stitched quilts; effort which promptly goes to waste, as Jack pitches himself across it and starts snoring almost immediately.

"He's had a hard time of it," Pete says. "Ah-"

"Shh," Becky says, quite intent. She traces her hand around the sleeper's wrist, whispers something. "I've got work to do."

For a moment, Pete's tempted to ask whether it's his old eyes playing up again, or if there really is a shimmer of silver light in the air- but he's got his own work to get to. Making sure one of his agents has what they need to finish their assignment.

It's nice to see that one of them's actually doing their job, anyway.


	31. Like uncle, like niece

Next thing Becky does, after she's seen Jack into a deep, safe slumber of cross-oceanic flying, is to call up Penny Parker. Who isn't best pleased over being pulled away from her dress rehearsal, until she actually arrives and gets the rundown about everything.

(Well, some things. Not Parabola and her dreamweaving. Becky's sure that her messing about with archetypes and multiple realities would be too much even for Penny's wide open mind.)

Her reaction's typically unpredictable- Penny's mostly just put out about being left out of the loop. "I mean, why didn't I hear about all this? All Jack said was that Phoenix was going to pay him for a sleep project, and he thought he'd do that for a bit until they figured out what all his nightmares were about."

"He wasn't allowed to mention," Becky says, sighing. "I should've thought about that before getting him involved. I'm sorry."

"Oh, well, I suppose nobody could have known I'd worry. I mean, who'd ever think about silly Penny Parker being serious about anybody? And I was only putting him up at first because he's MacGyver's friend- you know," Penny says, with an air of confidentiality, "for just the longest time, I was sure they liked each other- I mean, _really_ liked each other- and just didn't want to admit it. But then Nikki came along and I said to myself, oh, wait, they're even cuter together! Because they don't seem to know it or anything, you know? Like watching a real-life romantic comedy."

"Uh-huh." For all she's so scatterbrained Penny can be really perceptive sometimes. About both relationships, as a matter of fact.

"So when can I take him home?"

"…You're really sure you want to?"

"I miss him," Penny says, as earnestly as she knows how. "He makes me laugh, and that's awfully nice after a whole long day on set or whatever. And I can't find anything at all in my house, now he's put everything away neatly, and he makes just the nicest tapioca pudding, and- oh, it's lots of things. Besides. It sounds like he'll need lots of looking after."

Which is entirely true, and the whole reason why Becky's called her by in the first place. "Not for a while, I'm afraid. They want to keep him here for observation…but if you really want to help, there's something you could do for him right now. Thing is, I'm keeping his dreams safe for now, but- something might happen to me."

Penny simply nods. "Because Jacques. Scary, isn't he?"

Wrong sibling. "Uh…yeah, he is. I wouldn't even think about doing this otherwise, but Jack's in danger, and you're in danger, and I might be able to save both of you. Sort of give you both an emergency cord, that you can pull to call the other one if the dreams get too scary."

"It can't hurt, can it?"

"Don't think so."

"Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll remember one of my dreams, for once," Penny says wistfully. "I never do. Yours sound so interesting."

Becky almost second-guesses herself then; but there really aren't any other options. Nobody else saw Ashton's casual, dismissive shrug, as she'd walked away through a Parabolan forest; nobody else will mistrust their new protector's motives as she will. Nothing she can lay a finger on. Nothing tangible. But before she can even think about her uncle's offer, this much she has to do for her own conscience.

Maybe she ought to offer the same protections to Pete, or the rest of the Phoenix staff for that matter- but she knows she won't. The patterns won't run that way; everyone's here because they want to be, even her. They all know the risks. But Jack and Penny are just a couple of innocents, caught up in more than they'd reckoned. Them, she can save.

"Unc likes knives. I seem to go in for string." She pulls a half-completed knitting project from her pocket, with yarn of a bright metallic shine (produced out of Parabola mere seconds ago- it's getting better with practice). "Can't do anything much, until both of you are asleep at the same time- but here, you'll want to tie it around your wrist like so, and then here- see?"

Penny squeals, at the silvery shimmer. "Why, that's just the prettiest thing I've ever seen! Tingles a bit, but in a really good way."

"Thanks. And then we tie the other end around Jack- there we go." A rudimentary bond, which ought to work until she can fix up a proper connection that'll hold through thick and thin.

Becky knows just who to ask about that. But not right now, so she lets Penny ooh and ahh and complement her handiwork.

While she wonders what Ashton's game is, to be making such an offer when her brother's about to make his big move.

* * *

Nikki drives back to the apartment as MacGyver stares out the window at the city streets, lost in his own thoughts. She follows as he lets himself in, sorts through accumulated newspapers and mail, drops his jacket on top of the overstuffed armchair.

The place is just as Mac and Becky left it days ago, a happy medium between clutter and neatness. Stacks of books and magazines, reading material always at hand. Clean dishes sharing space with chemistry beakers on the drainer by the kitchen sink. A spare hockey glove dangling from a doorknob to a storage closet under the stairs. Videocassette rentals on top of the TV, _The Princess Bride_ right next to _A Fistful of Dollars_.

Only one thing missing from the homely tableau. The sweet, understated presence of a softly-spoken niece, to greet her beloved hero uncle at the end of a long mission.

Nikki's been content to live on her own ever since she lost her husband. Yet there are times when she catches herself wishing for someone other than her neighbor's dog to be waiting when she comes home from work.

At the bottom of the stairs Mac turns and smiles faintly. "Join me?"

"Much as I'd like to, I'm only here to make sure you do what Pete says. Get some sleep, take a shower, eat a decent meal. Take the time to think about what you did and why."

He tenses, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. "Don't have to think," he asserts. "I did the right thing, seeking out Ashton. She showed me where Murdoc's sleeping, even suggested I pull the plug. End his life while he's unconscious, right then and there."

"And you didn't do it."

He grimaces. "I'm not a killer, Nikki. You know that. Becky's everything to me; she'll never have anyone's blood on her hands, not if I can help it. This is for her own good."

Nikki feels like she ought to stand up for his niece's independence but it's been a long three days and she's way too tired to argue. "Fine, whatever. I'm going back to the lab, check up on her before heading home."

He nods, wearily. "Good. Just- try to get Becky to see where I'm coming from, okay? Convince her Ashton's offer is more than fair. Maybe with your help she'll see reason and we can forget all about this crazy Parabola nonsense." He yawns. "God, I'm wasted. Let yourself out, willya?"

"Sure, MacGyver. See you tomorrow."

* * *

When she returns to the sleep lab Jack's sprawled on top of Becky's quilts, snoring up a storm. In the chair beside him Penny Parker smiles and waves at her before returning to study her script, a length of silver yarn stretched between her right wrist and Dalton's left.

After speaking to Morgan and Beatty she finds Becky in the break room, nursing a mug of tea. Behind her glasses the teenager's eyes are bruised a tender green from the enforced somnolence but otherwise seems perfectly fine.

Nikki intends to ask her how she's doing but instead all that comes out is, "Why is Penny here, and when did she get clearance?"

"Um, well...I had to call her." Becky looks slightly ashamed. "She's not fully read in, just enough so she can look after Jack while he finally gets some sleep."

"Isn't that dangerous, in his state? Without protection?"

"No, I worked up a shield so his mind won't get tampered with again. Along with a temporary silver cord between him and Penny for further safeguarding, sort of like what I did between him and Mac as kids in one of the Mission City variations." She shrugs. "Best I can do right now, anyway; I'm still trying to figure out how to apply everything I've learned in Parabola. By the way, did Unc get home okay?"

"He's fine. Promised to have a good night's sleep, a hot shower and something to eat. And Pete's still demanding an explanation as to exactly what Ashton offered and why. That ought to keep him out of your hair for a while."

"How's his mood?"

"Still believes he did the right thing, if that's what you're asking. Also sure you'll come to your senses soon and, I quote, 'forget all about this crazy Parabola nonsense.'"

Becky groans. "As if I could, now! The things I've seen- say, how much did you guys get through the EVAC, anyway? Lakshmi was pleased as punch over the results, so it must've worked."

"Quite a bit," Nikki admits. "Not every little thing, but it certainly hit the high points. Have to say I'm impressed with how well you handled yourself, Becky. You were very brave. We're all so proud of you."

She flushes, ducks her head. Much like MacGyver does when accepting praise. "Not that I could do all that much- not until near the end, anyway. And then to get yanked away at the last minute, just as I was about to-" She sighs, shaking her head. "Well, what's done is done. Now I wonder if I should do what he says. Abandon the mission, give over every ounce of dreamweaving power I have to a woman who happens to be the sister of his nemesis, just so we can all sleep easier at night."

Nikki's silent for a while, thinking. She understands Mac's position, his protective tendencies regarding his beloved niece. Yet her sympathies also lie with the young woman sitting across from her who's recently discovered a talent uniquely her own. Distinguishing her from merely being related to her uncle the remarkable troubleshooter. Finding her moment in the sun, away from his shadow.

Much as she wanted to do with her own family, a lifetime ago.

"Becky, I've been an agent for a long time- since I was around your age, in fact. I've known colleagues who signed up for difficult missions only to take the easy way out at the last minute when things get really bad. And then there are others like MacGyver, who go above and beyond the mission no matter what, to do what they think is right."

"I know, and I really admire him for that. But he's acting less like a competent Phoenix agent and more like an overprotective parent." Becky shakes her head. "Sheesh. I'm almost twenty, for crying out loud. I swear he still thinks I'm a kid who needs to be shielded from everything bad out there."

"You can't blame him for trying to do what he believes is in your best interest. You're the only family he has left, after all-"

"Oh c'mon, Nikki. You think I don't know that already?" Becky snaps. "I've been aware of that fact since Harry died. Every time he goes and risks his life I worry I'll get a phone call from Pete telling me the worst has happened. I just wish he'd let me grow up already. Find my own challenges, make my own mistakes."

"Well, look at it from his perspective. Ever since we watched you almost drown in Parabolan dreamstuff he's been beating himself up, thinking it's all his fault for you getting involved this way. He's convinced dealing with Murdoc is his responsibility, and his alone."

"But this isn't his area! Unc's too much the rational skeptic to believe in lucid dreaming. Which is exactly why I volunteered for the mission. Because he's the only family _I_ have left, and this is something I can actually do, to save his sanity. He's everything to me, you know that," she adds softly. "I'll do whatever I can to keep his dreams safe. This is for his own good."

Nikki can't help but smile faintly. Like uncle, like niece, right down to the stubborn lift to the chin and intense look of determination.

"I just spoke with Morgan and Beatty, they're satisfied with the debriefing and you're cleared medically to leave. So why don't you pack everything up and I'll drive you home-"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Well, maybe not _can't_ , exactly. But I shouldn't, what with Jack needing more observation before Penny takes him back to her place. Plus if I do go home Uncle Mac will surely put the question to me again. I've never been able to say no to him, you see, and I'm afraid..." Becky lets her voice trail off and shrugs, helplessly.

"That you'd agree, just to make him happy?"

She nods, glumly. "Exactly. And I can't do that right now. The mission's not over, Murdoc's still a threat and I have to figure out what Ashton's angle is before deciding what to do next."

"You don't trust her, then? Mac seems to, and from what I've read of her dossier she has a professional reputation for playing fair. Everything appears to be above board."

"You know as well as I do appearances can be deceiving, that's true in Parabola as well as here. I take it you heard her conversation with Murdoc?"

"Same as you did. She's got access to him- or at least knows where he's sleeping. That's what gave us the idea to seek her out for ourselves. Get her on our side, have her stop Murdoc for us."

Becky's gaze narrows, rubs her chin. Another familiar MacGyver expression. "I don't like it. The whole thing smells like a setup."

"What are you talking about?"

She grimaces. "You guys didn't see what happened afterwards, did you?"

"We were sort of distracted by the possibility that the nightmares could be ended once and for all, to be honest."

"I tried to stop Murdoc but he rendered me completely helpless, wrapped up so tight I couldn't do anything. Ashton didn't even lift a finger to help me. Just shrugged, threw up a wall in my face and waltzed right off with her brother."

"Becky, even if that's the case don't you think she'd keep her word?"

"Frankly, I'm not so sure. I got a sneaking suspicion there's an ulterior motive behind that offer, but it's nothing more than a hunch. Let's just say I'm not convinced yet and leave it at that, if Unc ever asks. Not until I have more information, anyway."

Nikki nods. "Gathering more intel before acting is a wise idea, even if it's not always possible on a mission. You have the makings of a good agent, Becky."

A pink tint touches the teenager's cheeks. She casts her eyes down, fiddles with a sodden teabag. "I wouldn't know about that," she mutters. "I don't even know what I'm gonna major in yet."

"Whatever you decide, I'm sure you'll be exceptional."

Becky looks up, startled. "You really think so?"

"Yeah, I do." Nikki finds herself grinning, something that's rarely happened since she lost Adam. The honesty, humility and sincerity both Mac and Becky possess seem to bring out all sorts of unexpected emotions in her lately. Mostly positive ones, at that.

Which isn't really a bad thing, she has to admit.

"Speaking of gathering intel- I've some old friends in MI-6 who might be persuaded to divulge information on Ashton's research. Pete probably has some UK contacts as well. We'll see what we can dig up for you."

"Oh, thank you," Becky says gratefully. "I really appreciate it." She rummages in a pocket of her cardigan sweater, pulls out a knitted length of silver yarn. "I know it sounds silly, but- would you mind if I tied this around your wrist? Kinda like a string around a finger, to help you remember."

Nikki smiles indulgently, holds out her right hand. Becky loops the knitting around her wrist, secures it with a neat bow.

"And-" Becky hands her another length. "Please make sure Uncle Mac wears this as well, next time you see him. Promise me neither of you will take them off any time soon?"

"If it makes you feel better, sure."

"It does. Thanks." She looks relieved.

Nikki stands, stretches. "I'd better get some rest myself. You're staying here overnight, I take it."

Becky nods. "Think it's best, under the circumstances."

"Got everything you need?"

"Oh, yeah. The bed's still set up in the other room, they kept the TV and VCR hooked up, and I packed some books. Nigel's gonna let me know as soon as the takeout I ordered earlier from Fong Loo's arrives. Got extra clothes, toiletries. I planned ahead." She smiles. "I'll be fine, Nikki. See you tomorrow."

As Nikki reaches for her car keys in the parking lot she could swear there's a slight, silvery shimmer in the yarn fastened around her wrist.

But maybe it's just a trick of the sunlight.


	32. A mother's legacy

"I was wondering when you'd show up," her mother says. Her real mother this time, no copy or double or parallel. "Dreams being as temporally asynchronous as they are, it was more or less inevitable."

(Would this be more emotive, if she hadn't already met that other version of Allison? Or if she still wholeheartedly trusted her mother?)

They're back home again, the comfortable Craftsman-style house in Salem where she grew up. Cozy kitchen with the sturdy wooden table and cheerful blue curtains she embroidered when she was twelve- and Becky finds herself fighting down a grin. Allison always did enjoy tracking in the technobabble.

"Nice to see you too, Mom. How much time do we have?"

"Oh…not an infinite supply. But long enough, I'd say. What do you need to ask me about?"

All business in a crisis, that's a- well, a family trait. (Though for some reason it'd made her think of Nikki first.) "That bond you made, between Unc and me- that was you, right? I need to know how to do one myself."

Her mother frowns. "For yourself?"

"For Jack and Penny- did you ever get to know Penny? She's- uh, nice. If sorta flighty, but that's not really the point." She could be asking about Murdoc, about Ashton, about just what her mother's plans for her were. Only none of that seems important right now. "I've got to make sure they'll be all right. Unc thinks he has a way to take away my dreamweaving, so I don't have much time."

"Oh, good! I should have known he'd figure it out in the end…"

"What?"

"Well, that was the plan all along," Allison explains, toying with a cup of apple juice. "A little aid for my favourite brother, to help with his odder missions. But then I started having dreams about a car crash- well. I had to reconfigure the bond rather hastily, turn a tool for him into a lifesaver for you."

"You know about the accident?"

"Prophetic dreams, yes- you remember what you did for young Jack, over in that other reality? A forewarning about Alaska? The principle's the same."

"You were watching that?"

"Naturally," Allison says, smiling again. "You're coming along beautifully, Becky. I'm very proud of you."

Which is very nice and all, but first- "What d'you mean, it was originally for Unc? There's no way in hell he can handle all this!"

There's no official rule about shouting in the house. Nobody in the family ever yelled like this at her mother before, and Becky flinches a little in the ensuing silence.

"Sorry. But honestly- if I'd left it to him, I think we'd both be dead now. Or worse."

"He's like that now, because I didn't have time to finish my work," her mother says. Softly, understandingly, not at all upset. "Once I'd finished the programme, it would have been just another system for him to learn. Like computers, or knitting, or nineteenth-century steam engines, you know his knack for adapting to any situation. I just had to find the right way to transfer it to him. It sounds like you've finished my work for me- and when he absorbs all your potential, he'll be an agent like Phoenix has never seen."

Parabola is a thing of mind and belief, and there's no threat here. There's no reason for her to be this abruptly chilled. "You mean my having the dreamweaving ability in his stead was originally a mistake. Is that what you're saying?"

"One relative in the intelligence game is bad enough. But since he insists on playing, I wanted to give him every protection I could. And it worked. You've kept him safe when I couldn't."

"...But when he gets it, what about me? Do I lose all this?"

"Becky, I love you," her mother says simply. "I wouldn't put you into harm's way like that. You'll be safer once Angus has the power, and so will he."

It's possible, she knows that now. Ashton's programme will transfer her powers to any recipient she likes. Easy, even. It's the right thing to do.

Except there's this one tiny little problem-

"He doesn't want it for himself," Becky says, dully. "He thinks I should give up my powers to an English researcher we know. Ashton Cooke."

Allison snorts. "That hack? She'd let a snail outpace her while taking her time to ponder philosophical variables. Passive and dull as dishwater. Not an ounce of true imagination."

Which confirms the opinion Becky already has formed of Ashton. For all the initial impression of being the cool, calculating, intrepid Parabolan explorer, she's too much like her older brother.

(The memory of that cold, dismissive shrug lingers, even now.)

"I'm sure she'd appreciate the sentiment, but knowledge this precious ought to go to somebody who'll go ahead and use it to make a difference."

"Like Uncle Mac." Of course. Makes perfect sense.

"You know your uncle has a very high regard for your opinion- convince him that transferring the power to Ashton's simply the wrong he needs to take it himself. Become a white knight, to travel the byways of Parabola and forever keep them safe..."

Becky chokes. "A white knight? But that was- I thought that was..."

 _I thought that was mine. My metaphor._

"Well, of course it is," Allison says, answering the unspoken remark. "Because I put it there. All those storybooks I left lying around for you to read, and be read to, everything like that. You have to seed these things early, then lay the trail for everything else to follow-"

"Let me get this straight," Becky cuts in. "Your letter and the notebook with the recipe for Hesperidean Cider. Encountering a parallel version of you in Mission City, doing dream research for the Phoenix Foundation. The Fulgent Impeller. My imaginary realm, the pool of refined dreamstuff. Was all of that your doing?"

Allison shakes her head. "Not entirely. The parallel me, your rescue by the crew of the _Clipper_ \- those were pure happenstance. And your realm already existed, in rudimentary form fueled by your boundless imagination. But the rest- yes. Stepping stones on your path to discovery, leading you to achieve your full potential as a dreamweaver in your own right."

Sudden flash of memory. Murdoc's accusations. "Mom, that bond Uncle Mac and I have- you didn't steal it away from someone else, did you? Appropriate it for your own purposes?"

Allison's mouth drops open in shock. "Why Rebecca Ellen, whatever gave you that idea? I'd never steal from anyone. Not even in Parabola. You two have a genuine soul bond, starting from the moment he first held you in his arms. I merely nudged it along here and there- always gently, I assure you," she adds quickly. "The patterns were crystal clear- _animus_ and _anima_ , each in the other, just as Jung theorized."

Very touching and all, but geez. Becky sighs, slumps in her chair.

"What's wrong?" Allison asks in surprise. "I thought you'd be pleased to hear that."

"I am, but- does this mean I'm destined to remain in his shadow my whole life? Or even-" She finds herself choking on the words: _Or even yours?_

Bad enough when many of MacGyver's friends once thought of Becky as a smaller, female version of him. Especially frustrating those first few years after the car crash, though her testifying at the Tarantino trial helped a bit to ameliorate that, along with subsequent achievements in music and academics.

But now- just as she's becoming a Phoenix agent in her own right, doing something even her uncle can't- she's beginning to wonder. How many of her coworkers on Project Serendip see her as merely the daughter of Dr. Allison Cassandra Grahme, world-renowned psychologist and dream researcher?

Stepping away from one relative's reputation, only to find herself overshadowed by another that's equally formidable. Her mother's legacy.

Becky studies the woman sitting across from her. Similar petite form and delicate features. Silver strands peeking among lustrous auburn hair. Laugh lines she might have someday herself. Eyes the same winter-sky-blue, twinkling with a glimmer of mischief. Head cocked with a single eyebrow raised in curiosity, a MacGyver characteristic if ever there was one. Which she has as well.

 _Is there anything that's truly, uniquely my own? Am I really nothing, apart from my family?_

Peals of laughter echo throughout the kitchen, a rich warm sound. "Oh hon, don't you worry about that. You're a standout in your own right."

"How'd you know what I was thinking?"

"Mother's intuition, you betcha," Allison grins. On occasion she'd absently slip into native Minnesotan idioms without realizing it, but this time it's done for effect and Becky can't help but laugh herself.

"Seriously, though. I know what you mean. When my mom died everyone in Mission City thought Michael and I ought to abandon our lives, pull up stakes and move back to my hometown, take over running the coffee shop. Continue the legacy of Ellen MacGyver and Celia Jackson, never mind my brilliant academic career."

Becky snorts. "Yeah, I noticed that attitude last time I visited there- or the variations, anyway. They're very big on conservatism, aren't they? Tradition, continuity, conformity." Shakes her head. "Not my thing."

"Mine neither, though I have to admit there were a couple times after the funeral when I actually considered it. But then I remembered something Harry once told me, and I knew there was no way I could simply drop everything I've worked so hard for without losing my self-respect. Mac didn't want it either so we sold the shop, much to everyone's consternation."

"So what did Harry tell you?"

"Apparently in the British Navy- especially back in the days of full-rigged sailing ships- every inch of rope they used has a single strand of red running from end to end, so integral a part it can't be extracted without first undoing the entire rope. Even the smallest piece can be used as identification, if it's from one of their vessels. According to Harry something like that scarlet line exists in every human being, a thread which connects everything forming a person's fundamental nature, and characterizes the whole."

"But what does it mean?" Becky asks. "Grandpa always had useful advice but I don't get that one."

"In psychology we know there are many elements that contribute to an individual psyche," Allison explains, her voice falling into a familiar lecture mode. Always the teacher. "Heredity is one, environment another. Interactions with family, friends, society at large. Strip away all the outward trappings, whatever's left is exclusive. Not beholden to anyone else, ever. One might even call it a soul."

Becky's brow furrows. "Still not getting it."

"Whether your qualities were inherited, given by accident or achieved on your own, everything that's gone into forming your scarlet strand since you were born makes you _you._ That's how you're different from your uncle, and me and Michael, and everyone else in the world. No matter how others see you, you'll always be my remarkable, wonderfully unique daughter. Never forget that."

"I won't," Becky says softly. "Thanks." Tears come to her eyes as she's pulled into a warm, affectionate cuddle. "Oh Mom. I miss you guys so much."

"We miss you too, sweetheart. Don't worry, you'll be fine no matter what happens. Now," Allison says briskly, all business once more. "Our time's up. You've got work to do. Hold out your hands. I'll teach you everything I know about silver cords before you go."

* * *

Becky wakes with images of binding configurations fresh in her mind as tears slowly trickle down her face. She irritably wipes them away on the bedsheet.

Hardly the nightmare she'd feared, but full of potent information nonetheless. Sufficient to give an understanding of her mother's stunning legacy (the implications of which will linger in her mind for days).

She reaches out, tests the patterns, another technique getting easier with practice. Murdoc's Alteration still looms on the horizon. A reckoning is at hand.

Becky's not afraid anymore. Mom and Harry are right- she can handle whatever challenges life throws at her.

The knowledge of which, however, doesn't improve her current situation- much less her mood- one iota.

Or at least not until she and Uncle Mac have a talk, anyway.

* * *

"Hey."

Becky glances up from studying her notes from the Cosmogone file. MacGyver lingers in the door, a melancholic trouble in his eyes despite a faint smile on his lips.

"Hey, Unc."

"Everything going okay? Sleep well?"

"Well enough. How about you?"

"Oh, fine, fine."

Small talk, not something either of them is really good at. And they both know it.

"Nikki here with you?"

"Yeah, discussing some project stuff with Elizabeth and Lakshmi. Just thought I'd see how you're doing." Mac looks down, scuffling the toe of one sneaker against the worn linoleum.

His mood's significantly more subdued than it was yesterday. Pete must've chewed him out but good.

Any annoyance at his presumption has faded away overnight and for the first time ever she feels sorry for him. It's not easy doing what one thinks is right in defiance of all logic, and who would know that better than MacGyver?

She catches a slight shimmer of silver on his right wrist and sighs inwardly in relief. Bless Nikki for her persistence. Once she finds an opportunity to get a section to Pete, her preparations will be complete.

(Hopefully the backup silver cords won't be needed, but if worst comes to worst Mac can't be allowed to be completely devastated by her loss, closed up so tight no one can get through. Not gonna happen if she can help it.)

"Nikki and I are going away for a few days, up the coast. That beach we went to last time, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"So- wanna come with? Wouldn't mind your company."

"I wouldn't be in the way?"

"No. C'mon, Beck. Please?" He looks at her, as sincere as he's ever been. Wide open and pleading.

Becky knows a peace offering from her uncle when she sees one. Even if it doesn't come with chocolate.

"Sure, Unc."

* * *

"We should do this more often," MacGyver says, pleased.

Late afternoon at an undisturbed beach north of San Francisco, full of interesting shells and agates for him to pontificate over, and sun to bask in. Nikki smiles at him from behind her dark designer sunglasses.

Same brand as her uncle's, actually; they're a well-matched couple. (Her own shades have to be clipped directly over her glasses, more's the pity.)

"I'd like that," Becky says. And means it. Her love for her uncle's too strong for anything to rend or mar; and besides, it's not his fault that his older sister decided to set him up with a Destiny.

Or that she was the one to receive it instead by accident, so to speak.

She'd always missed her mother, most of all. Now she's wishing for Chris, and his skepticism and his no-nonsense-little-squirt attitude. Out in Parabola there must be an infinite number of versions of her brother around somewhere- but none of them will be him. Not ever.

So what would the crazy freak advise, in this situation?

"I'd enjoy that," Nikki says. "Although next time we might have to tolerate a little more company. I doubt I can get away with misusing the Emergency Broadcast System like that a second time."

"You did _what?"_

"A warning of a severe H2O influx in the area," Nikki says lazily. "I thought that'd make people give the place a wide enough berth. Seems to have worked."

Becky snickers.

"Nikki, that's- that's- I dunno," Mac says, sounding very frustrated, "whether I should be upset with you, or annoyed with people for not knowing basic science."

"Leave annoyance for tomorrow," she says, contented. "Tonight's going to be a perfect night."

Becky looks on with wry relief. Supposedly, this trip was going to be about reconciling her and her uncle; but the actual conversation has been going on between the all-but-engaged couple. Building castles together, picnicking, swimming in the surf...

(Her uncle has the _worst_ timing when it comes to romances. Always had done, according to Allison.)

"It's just been nice to relax for the first time in ages," Mac says. "Knowing that everything's going to be okay soon. Bless Ashton."

Ugh. "I talked to Mom a couple nights ago-"

"How?"

"Dreams, Unc, duh. So. She said you ought to have the power instead."

"I can't imagine a worse idea," Mac says, shuddering.

"I trust you more than Ashton Cooke. Any day."

"You'd say that about any candidate we picked," he points out. "Becky, I appreciate the thought, but you've been right about this all along. I'd be miserable if I had to do this kinda wacky, no rules dreamstuff. Or meet doubles of my friends- d'you know how much I hate the very notion of doubles? This job's bad enough without throwing evil twins into the mix. And then, I don't see how you'd ever be able to decide what's right for a universe when you've only just arrived there..."

He goes on in that vein for some time, while she sits on the sand and ponders. Two years ago she took that first nap and wound up in the middle of Mac's Western adventure, and her first face-to-face meeting with Murdoc.

(With a shiver and a touch to the scars on her wrists she recalls his kidnapping attempt last summer. Murdoc must've spiked the sedatives he'd given her with Somnocil, so much she doesn't remember even dreaming of an escape. And then nightmares for a long time afterwards, a challenge for both Morgan and Beatty together to banish from her mind before she could resume lucid dreaming without harm.)

Two years' worth of preparation. Enough time for training at Phoenix alongside all her other activities. Refining her skills, shaping her into an agent. A weapon.

Just as her mother planned. Just as Ashton implied to Mac.

Maybe she's not supposed to have a Destiny. But having it by accident's better than nothing, right?

Isn't it?

"...I mean, you might as well give it to Murdoc. He at least knows what he's doing."

Uh-oh. A shiver runs down her spine.

Nikki sits up, raises her sunglasses. "MacGyver, did I hear you right? You want _Murdoc_ to have Becky's power?"

"Yep."

"The same Murdoc who's been trying to kill you for years?"

"Aw, that's just his way of trying to impress me," Mac replies with a smirk, leaning comfortably back in the chaise lounge. "He's a smart guy. I'm certain he'll set things right."

"You really think he's more trustworthy than Ashton?" Becky says, incredulously.

"Absolutely. You oughta hand your power over to Murdoc, Beck. It's the right thing to do." He says it with such conviction, she knows there's no changing his mind.

Becky's never, ever lied to her uncle before (withheld information on occasion perhaps, but then he's done the same for her). They've always been honest with each other. But deception's what the situation calls for now.

Shares a significant glance with Nikki, who gives a subtle nod in agreement.

Chris would even approve, for the greater good.

"Okay Unc, if that's what you want. I'll always trust you. But I'll have to go back to Parabola one last time to do it."

He shrugs. "Sure, if you have to. We'll call Pete and the dream team tomorrow."

Murdoc's making his move. The Alteration has begun. She can't allow that to happen.

And Becky won't be handing over her hard-won powers to anyone else, ever.

Because she won't be herself without it. Parabola is chaotic and terrible, sure, but also glorious.

Because it's her mother's legacy, for good or ill. Her Destiny.

And because, finally, Becky has to carve out a place for herself at last.

And this is what it is.


	33. Takeoff

"Tell me the truth," Pete says, leaning over his desk. "Do you think you can do it? Is there a plan to handle Murdoc, permanently?"

"I think so," Becky says, sleepily. Eight o'clock's not really a time of day when she wants to be awake, but a call from Phoenix is a call from Phoenix. "Course, you know what Unc says about plans, that they never survive contact with reality…"

She'd expect him to laugh, or at least smile; but Pete just looks tired. "I wouldn't put much stock in anything you uncle's telling you right now. I'm sorry, but you must know that."

"Nikki told you everything? How he's acting now, talking up Murdoc and everything?"

"Yes. I've taken her off all other duties, to make sure he can't hurt himself or anybody else- we've a certain advantage there," Pete says, a little wry now. "In his present state of mind, he must be very susceptible to outside influence- so I've told Nikki to make sure she's as fiery and domineering as she knows how to be. I'll bank the influence of her active presence against some Murdoc-instilled mumbo-jumbo any day. He ought to be all right, for a time."

"That's a relief. And maybe she can help him shake it off, too-"

"Don't count on that," Pete says gravely. "She just called to get my okay on tickets for Disneyland. Now can you imagine MacGyver meekly following her along to a theme park, if he was in anything like his right mind?"

"…I really wish I could laugh," Becky mutters. "Okay. So it's decision time."

"About that," Pete interjects. "Your uncle was not joking about talking to the board, and they've been getting increasingly restive about why the deal with Ashton hasn't gone through yet. I'm going to have to tell them today that MacGyver's currently unreliable, and why- and of course, once that happens they'll demand we move heaven and earth to get our best agent back immediately."

"So it's not up to me after all," Becky says, with sudden giddy relief. If it's not her decision, it's not her decision.

"The board meeting is at four o'clock," Pete says. "Originally, it was going to be at noon, but I told them I needed a little more time to sort out the paperwork, finish laying out the fine details. A smile and a handshake isn't the same thing as a full-blown agreement of cooperation, you know-"

There's a look on his face. She can see the wheels turning, the wily career bureaucrat hard at work figuring out another angle.

"...Do you know what, Becky?"

"What?"

"You look very tired," Pete says sympathetically. "I think you should go get some sleep, don't you?"

She pauses. "If you- I'd hate to think of you getting into trouble with the board, or anything."

"I'll let you in on a little secret," Pete says. "Your uncle makes mistakes. So does Carpenter, so does Dalton- good lord, does that man make mistakes- but whatever they do in the field, I support them. One hundred percent, whatever the board or the public or anybody else has to say about it. Because that kind of loyalty is the only way to get the trust I want from my agents."

"I'm not really an agent. Just somebody who can- well, dream, that's all. And if I give that up, I won't even have that going for me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Pete says, looking surprised. "Becky, if you haven't heard it before- nobody gets out of the Game. I'm afraid you're stuck with us now."

If her uncle had heard a thing like that, at her age, he'd probably have started running and not quit until he reached Argentina.

But she's not him, and working for Phoenix doesn't feel like an imposition. It just feels right.

"…you know, I think I'm going to go have a good nap. Sleep it over, you know?"

"Excellent plan."

"And whatever happens- would you wear this?" She hands him a silvery gray bit of knitting, a match for the one that Nikki and Mac each have now.

"A bracelet? Ah- it's certainly nice, but this isn't exactly formal business attire."

"Humour me?" Becky pleads. "Just for luck. "

"For luck, then." He slips it on, and frowns when it flares up in sudden light. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"Uh-huh."

All the pieces are in place, now.

Almost time for the final match.

* * *

"Jack's been asleep this whole time?"

"Without sedative," the doctor tells her. "The entire time you've been away. Of course we've taken care of him, but it is starting to worry us."

That hadn't been her plan at all. Just safeguarding his sleep. "Penny, have you noticed anything?"

"No. And I've been coming every morning, before rehearsal, to see if it'd make any difference. And it doesn't seem to have." The actress droops- theatrically, of course, but sincerely for all that. "So I'm glad you're back. I'm sure you can help him."

"Always something," Becky says aloud; and hears her uncle's dry tone in the inflection. _And I haven't really got time for this, I have to go tackle Murdoc while I have the chance-_

No. No, she'll just have to make time. Her uncle's always talking about coincidences, how he'd save somebody only for them to turn around and save him later. She needs to be better than Murdoc, if she's going to defeat him.

"Actually, Penny, you're the one who's going to need to help him." Becky turns to the doctor. "We need sedatives. An overnight dose for her, but keep it indefinite for me. I'll wake myself up."

"Now look," Penny says indignantly. "I have a show to get to! I can't sleep through it!"

Becky sighs. "Straight up, Penny Parker. D'you love him or not?"

"…why. Well. I guess when you put it that way, I do."

"Have somebody in Public Relations do a story for her production," Becky orders one of the nearby techs. "Nice cast-iron excuse for why she couldn't get to work."

"You're not really supposed to know we even do that," the Phoenix staffer says, dubiously.

"Uncle Mac told me," she says. Politely.

"Oh, him. Right…"

Name-dropping has its uses, especially if she's becoming a full-fledged Phoenix agent. Might as well make the most of it.

* * *

"Suppose I don't want to wake up, huh?"

"That doesn't sound much like the Jack Dalton I know and love," Becky says in surprise. "You get such a kick out of life."

"And the best part of it is this," Jack says intently, waving a hand at the cockpit, the clear cloudless sky outside it. "Beck, if this is the only way to keep it, then this is what I'll do. You don't have any idea how hellish it was, waking up and realising I couldn't do the thing I loved anymore…but it's okay in here. I'm fine here."

He readjusts his flight cap, smiles peacefully at the flight controls, and Becky grits her teeth with irritation. "Jack, this was a mistake. I just wanted to make sure you'd have somewhere to feel safe for a while."

"And you did a real swell job at it, kiddo," Jack says fondly. "It's perfect."

"If I don't get you out now, I don't know that I'll ever be able to. You might be stuck here for good, with nowhere else to go."

"Still my idea of heaven." But he looks a little worried now.

"And you like people, Jack, you know that. You're the life of the party. How can you even think about spending forever in your own head?"

"Well, that's not true. Won't you be around?"

"Not necessarily," she says, sighing. "There's Murdoc."

"Is that what this is about? You need backup to help take him out?"

"Geez, no." She's not going to put him at risk like that, even if he'd be any help. Which she sincerely doubts. "This is something I have to do myself. And I might get it wrong, and I might just get myself killed- and then, can you imagine what kind of wreck my uncle's gonna be after that? He's going to need all the support he can get. And you can't do that if you're sticking around here playing dead."

"Becky Grahme, that's not playing fair and you know it."

"And it's not like it's a very good dream," Becky pleads. "I don't know that much about building them, not yet. D'you really want to never be able to land, or hustle anybody, or even just have a bacon sandwich? Jack, I wouldn't have wished this on Murdoc, let alone you!"

"…Beck. If I go back, I'm not going to be me anymore."

"Yes, you will," she reassures him. "And there'll be people to help- treatments for phobias, aversion therapy and all kinds of stuff. Phoenix is the perfect place for that. Please, Jack. Please, I don't want to lose you like this."

His voice trembles. "Can you fix it up so that I can come back here sometimes, when I'm dreaming? If I want to?"

"Now that, I think I can arrange." She snaps her fingers.

"Ooh," Penny says, as she enters the cockpit. "An airline stewardess! I've never played one of these before."

(Becky tries not to blush. She'd never have dreamed up such a short hemline.)

"Penny Parker?"

"Sure," Penny says artlessly. "Becky says that the two of us can hook into each other's dreams now, so I can make sure you don't pull any silly stunts like this again- you've been asleep for days! You missed last Saturday's matinee and everything!"

"And I'm coming back to life for this," Jack mutters. "Hello to you too, sweetheart."

"Oh, right, hello!" She kisses him; he kisses her back, with one hand on the wheel. It goes on for a while.

Becky gives them a couple minutes, studiously looking at everything else but them before interjecting. "Have you noticed we haven't lost any altitude yet? No crashing in this dream, I wanted it to be real safe."

"That takes all the fun out of it," Jack sulks. "Shucks, Beck, you might have said that first. Saved yourself the trouble. Although if that's so, gives me an idea or two to try out…"

"Jack. You're incorrigible."

"I know. Good thing too, or you'd never get me out of here. Haven't you got somewhere to be? World to save or something?"

"Just one more thing." Becky adjusts twin silver loops around their wrists. Just like her mom had said; it's only a matter of enhancing a connection that's already there…

"Guess I'm out of excuses, now. Wish me luck."

"That's very bad luck," Penny says gravely. "Besides, I'm sure you'll be just fine. Like your uncle."

"You better be awake when I get back," Becky says sternly.

"We will be," Jack assures her. Probably as good as she's going to get.

Time for her opening gambit.


	34. Apotheosis

The lowest level of Parabola, barest whisper above pure primal Chaos. Cosmogone, the light of remembered suns, has never illuminated these depths.

 _Farewell,_ Becky whispers to the _animus_ within. _For I'm afraid you won't survive what's coming._

 _Oh, no,_ comes the reply. _Not ever. You and I are one. Even when there's nothing left, I'll be here for you. Count on it._

The thought comforts her, as nothing else can now. She's risking everything in one massive final gamble, but it's worth it if she can keep her beloved uncle from the clutches of a dangerous madman.

One moment, given over to high and certain destiny. Readiness for anything that might come, her power all in waiting, tempered by her experiences and her knowledge. A willingness to go down fighting, whatever it takes.

Many, many moments later, Becky's forced to confront the awful truth. Having a destiny is very far from actually knowing how to carry it out. Particularly if one's opponent hasn't yet shown up.

"Murdoc, where are you? Stop hiding, come out and face me already!"

Variations of which have failed noticeably to have any effect. If she didn't know better, she'd figure the assassin was actually frightened of her.

Which is barely possible…all else aside, Murdoc must have an inkling of her mother's researches through his sister, if not much else. Yet if she doesn't know his capacities, the same must surely go for him. Maybe that's what's held him back so far, concern that pushing her too hard will blow up in his face.

Well, that's exactly what's going to happen. "Murdoc! For crying out loud, let's get this over with!"

Still nothing. She wades through endless, chaotic darkness, thick and viscid, holding tight to her silver cord for support.

Which seems to be tarnishing at a rapid rate. Even turning an odd colour. Dark reddish, almost, a little inflamed, the colour of a fresh wound. Not a good omen.

"Unc?"

She tugs. Slack, lifeless.

"C'mon," Becky cajoles. "You're not gonna have him as long as I'm around, don't you know that? This line works both ways."

Still nothing. Exasperated, she pulls on the connection with all her might, willing whatever's at the other end to come and meet her-

She tumbles over, deep into raw dreamstuff, staring at the figure she's conjured.

Hair the color of golden honey, almost shoulder-length in a shaggy cut. Velvet brown eyes. Soul-deep weariness etched in the lines of his ruggedly handsome face.

MacGyver (assuming that's who it is; there's something faintly off about him, but she can't yet figure out what) smiles faintly. "Hey, Becky. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" He holds out his hand for her to take. "C'mon, I'll help you out of that."

"Thanks Unc, but I'm just fine. You gotta get out of here, okay? It's not safe for you, and I'm not exactly sure how to both protect you and deal with Murdoc at the same time." Brushing his hand aside as she stands, begins preparing the battleground on her terms. This place will be as solid or sinking or brittle as she chooses, therefore a thick, unyielding floor, strong as she can render under her feet. Cream and coffee squares, like the flooring in her grandmother's cafe. A massive chessboard, ready for the playing.

"Oh, I'll be fine, don't worry. Like I need extra protection anyway," Mac says lazily, brushing remnants of black flakes off his hands. "I already have somebody who'll do that for me. Someone I can trust."

"Why, I do believe that's my cue." A familiar, insolent drawl. Murdoc steps out from the shadows.

The ground twitches even as Becky strains not to give away her surprise, in a gasp. That's what's off- her uncle's trapped within the Alteration, yielding to his advances. The thought turns her stomach.

He smirks at her discomfiture. "It hadn't occurred to me- it had genuinely not occurred to me, that the way to catch MacGyver might just be this simple. This mundane. This- well, this blatantly pathetic."

"Unc? What's he done to you?"

"I'm just tired of being afraid, I guess," he says. Not even looking at Murdoc, though the assassin stares at him with rude pleasure. "Tired of waking up wondering if I'm gonna die today. Tired of wondering if you're going to. If I'm going to be shot or whumped or stricken with amnesia, or any of the other hundred and one fun things that happen to Pete Thornton's agents- Becky, d'you know how many of them my age are still alive? None of 'em. Only me."

There is a difference, Becky notices, between the concern that she feels she ought to show, and the concern that urges her to pay attention, be careful, observe with immaculate precision. She discards the former, holds to the latter. It's what Nikki would do, to get out of this.

"There's Jack," she suggests. Just to keep the conversation moving.

He snorts. "Jack Dalton can fancy whatever he likes. It's not the same thing- you know why it isn't? He doesn't think anything can kill him, so it's all water off a duck's back. He's never lived in fear the way I have, all these years. And now I don't have to anymore."

"Oh c'mon Unc, this is Murdoc we're talking about! It's the same thing he did to Jack earlier, playing off all your fears."

"And it's worked," Mac says, very weary now. "Becky, I'm so tired of fighting, I can't take any more. I'm done. Just hand your power over so things can get back to normal. Murdoc'll keep us safe."

He reaches out his hand for the assassin but she immediately inserts herself between them. Stands there, resolute. Same as she did last summer in the waking world, poised between her uncle and the barrel of a gun. Defiant and ready to take on Murdoc- along with the rest of the world- despite being battered and bruised.

"You won't have him. Not as long as I'm here." She expects anger in retaliation, laughter, weapons. Fight and fury.

But Murdoc's in different mood, it seems. He circles them, alight and interested as a cat on the prowl; she takes care to keep blocking him from his prize.

"I," he says, contemplatively. "An interesting problem, really. All those tedious little psychology metaphors your mother brought to the party- they are metaphors, you know, no better than my way of viewing Parabola. And curious ones, too- go on, tell me all about your id, and ego, and super-ego and _animus_ , and so on until you've fragmented a simple I into a thousand hapless fragments, like so many scuttling ants. Now if you ask me, I am I. Quite simply. Who are you, Rebecca Ellen Grahme? Are you real?"

"A theoretical question if ever there was one," she notes dryly. "Are any of us real, in the end? Could be we're all figments of someone else's imagination." Discussing philosophy with the likes of Murdoc is the last thing in the world she expects to be doing right now, but worth it if the inevitable's delayed just that much longer.

"Illusory images. Our dreams mere silhouettes in Parabola, fitfully imposing order on chaos."

"Perhaps." She's gotta hand it to the guy- he'd make a fine academic, if he wasn't already a cold-blooded killer.

"And perhaps some of us are simply more real than others. Whereas you, Miss Grahme, aren't real at all. Because you're not anyone," he says, almost gently. "You're just a mirror, who shows others what they want to see. There's nothing that's truly yours. And I can prove it." He raises a hand, brings it down sharply through seemingly empty air.

She suddenly sees herself as he's visualising her: a tangle of knotted fibres, a walking doll of strings and yarn.

This isn't good, not good at all. She can't allow him to determine the grounds of their contest, which should've been just between the two of them. Involving Mac in their private tug-of-war has left her completely blindsided, it'll be a challenge regaining the upper hand.

He pulls, and unravels, while she counters with the cool solidity of a chessboard. The dueling images clash, sending the plane rolling like a massive shockwave, turbulent eddies propagating upwards through the unreal entirety of Parabola.

Black and white squares shatter to fragments, flinging piecemeal into the yawning dark under the force of his dreamweaving. Desperately Becky throws every skill she owns to holding herself intact under a rising tide of ruin, but it won't be enough. She's failing her mission, for how can she possibly hope to succeed against a dreamweaver of his caliber?

She risks a look at Mac. He's simply standing there, watching with detached curiosity. Would he become this impassive in the waking world, unresponsive to others' pleas for help?

No. That's not her uncle. He's a hero, he'd never give up if their situations were reversed. She'll break him free from Murdoc's Alteration, no matter what it takes.

She flings herself recklessly into a second attempt. The chessboard reappears, barely maintained by her tremendous force of will.

Murdoc chuckles, disturbingly like her uncle. "Courageously done, little one. I must admit I admire your bravura. Though needless to say you shan't succeed a second time no matter how hard you try."

She's too busy concentrating to reply. If he's to have her handicraft, she'll take-

"White."

"Don't be silly," Murdoc says, tutting. "I've already made the first move- well, I did catch you napping."

His pawn's two spaces in front; she sends forth her own in reply-

With a casual wave he dismisses the images, forces her seeing back on herself. "This won't do at all. I prefer my way of winning. Not that I'll lose either way, of course, but the knifework's infinitely more satisfying. This one, now," Murdoc murmurs, catching one thread out of the air with a knife, the steel shimmering with a peculiar dark radiance. "Kevlar. You don't really think that's yours, do you? It has Nikki Carpenter's fingerprints all over it."

(Calmness and pragmatism. Perfect self-control, a brave face presented to the world concealing deep, tragic loss and guilt. Sensible, kindly advice during the initial upheaval of her adolescence. Nothing like her mother, but she'll do very well as an aunt.)

He extracts another thread. This one's sturdy worsted wool, of a type she recognises. "Now why you should idealise a faceless, meaningless bureaucrat, I've no idea- at least with your uncle it's understandable. While I've often toyed with the notion that Peter Thornton doesn't even exist, after he's handed out the day's assignments. A little two-dimensional poster, to flash its message and be rolled up in the closet when not wanted."

(Steadfast, quiet support in reserve. Loyalty, honor and duty. Respect for those under his command, returned in equal measure. Compassion, warmth and humor under a veneer of bureaucratic efficiency. A shoulder to cry on when fears for her uncle's life became too much to handle.)

Murdoc shouldn't be able to pick her apart quite so easily. Her attempts to bring back the chess board aren't working; his desire's harsher than her own. How long has the assassin been longing for just such a chance as this, taking not only her but everybody else in his inamorata's life apart?

"Inamorata?" her uncle questions. Though with pride rather than indignation- oh, what good's her bond with him now?

"Oh, I might have guessed this," Murdoc says in disgust. The subtle knife twirls and slices through air, chopping at an absurdly long string of brightly coloured silk. "Jack Dalton, inhabiting twice as much space as he ought to. No matter, he's taken care of now."

(The second bravest man she knows, next to Mac. Enduring parental death and desertion, neglect and abuse by a relative and still approaching life with cheerfulness and verve, even in the face of danger. Always looking for another angle, sly and cunning, yet a soft streak a mile wide for a fellow orphan.)

She's being torn apart bit by bit, and it takes everything she has to listen and stand by mute, not respond in any way. Each cut makes her scream inside with agony at the loss, but there's no way in hell she's giving him that satisfaction.

Not that it's stopping her from reacting in other ways. Her anger melds the metaphors, mixes them unmercifully. A rook stands on the board, a feather boa for rippling pennant.

(A whirlwind of optimism. Blithely, even courageously, pursuing her dreams no matter what. A certain amount of capriciousness, true, but heart always in the right place, never malicious. The kind, understanding big sister she never had.)

"You know who this is," Becky says quietly, as Murdoc lifts his knife again. "You cared for Penny a little, I think."

"Now, why would I tell you that?" But he lowers the knife a little, runs a hand through pink softness, a wistful smile on his face. Then ruthlessly tearing it away. "But needs must, you know. How else do I isolate him effectively enough?"

"You're not fighting him, you're fighting me!"

"A preposition in logic, Miss Grahme," Murdoc says. "Things equal to the same thing are equal to each other, no? If I cut all your strings, he'll fall. Pity you won't be around to watch him dance to my tune afterwards."

She grabs for the knife, blindly. Knocks it out of his hands as he hastily sidesteps her, allowing her to fall smack on the chessboard. The blade makes an odd chiming sound as it comes into contact with the dreamstuff, bouncing away just out of reach.

He smiles, produces a razor blade, and effortlessly slices through a thick hempen rope, bound and woven together in a three-ply weave.

(Family. Patience, dependability, quiet introspection. Warm laughter, keen insights. Skepticism and levelheadedness.)

"All tangled together, I see. Your father, your mother, your brother- there they go, away on the wind. And that disposes of you, I do believe. No one else to call on for help, nobody else to trust with your soul- and your soul's a very slight affair, I fear. Practically lacking any real substance."

No chess, now. Murdoc cuts away at her dreams, thin wisps of gossamer that vanish on their parting.

"…And now you see there's nothing left, MacGyver. A dream your sister left you, that's all, and I'll admit it was a good one. A little of Carpenter's intelligence, Dalton's humour, Penelope's femininity, it held together long enough to protect you from all the chaos. But you're safe now," Murdoc coaxes. "I'm here. You can wake up, wake and never worry about your dreams again. I've everything you can possibly need."

Familiar brown eyes rest on hers, tired and uncertain. "But Becky- is there anybody there?"

She opens her mouth to say, yes, of course- and no sound comes out.

He starts winding up his end of their slackened connection, cringing at the crimson-soaked cord. "If there's nothing at the end of this, well…then I guess I'll believe you."

Weightless, breathless, insubstantial as ash. Murdoc walks over, walks through her without a flinch.

"Now, now, MacGyver. Of course you'll find something at the end. I'll be here waiting."

Standing on wobbly legs she clutches the end of her cord, in colourless hands, watches it wavering in midair. Miles, fathoms, all the brilliantly shimmering and versatile cord between them, leaking out her life's blood.

"Death of a thousand cuts," Murdoc says to her, in an undertone. "I've delivered worse eulogies."

She buckles, sprawls on the floor, fighting even for breath now, vision beginning to glaze over, narrowing to a single point. A splash of red on the endless expanse of black and white.

Which is slowly drawing itself together, minuscule threads swiftly becoming thicker. Until finally every drop is gathered into a single scarlet strand, pulsing with life.

So integral a part of herself it can't be extracted without first undoing everything else. A unique glyph for all that she is, symbolic rendering of each and every thought and feeling and action she's experienced since she was born.

Sudden flash of memory, a forest clearing. Harry Jackson- her great-grandfather, aiding her from beyond the grave- pointing out her reflection in a mirror. Fear, uncertainty, stubbornness, indecisiveness, isolation, guilt and uselessness. Yet also determination, cunning, practicality, optimism. loyalty, compassion and kindness.

The scarlet strand. That's what Harry once described to his granddaughter, as Mom explained to her in turn. All those qualities belonging to her, for good or ill. Beholden to no one else, ever.

With almost invisible hands she quickly scoops it up, pressing it against her. Every passing second feeling more and more substantial, as her _animus_ is reabsorbed into her very being.

 _You're back_ , she whispers in relief.

 _Told you, didn't I? Even when there's nothing left, I'll still be here._

Fully energized, she grabs Murdoc's subtle knife, stands on her own two feet. Solid as earth and unstoppable as the sun. Defying the very darkness with a brilliant flare of dreamweaving power.

Through the whole thing Murdoc remains fixated on her uncle with his usual lewd interest. The perfect opportunity to take advantage of his inattention.

There's only one thing she can do now to save Mac, much as it pains her. She doesn't want to. It's petulance. Selfishness. Sheer, absolute, unshakable refusal to let her uncle go.

But a sacrifice has to be made, to save him from becoming thrall to Murdoc's Alteration for the rest of his life. Her very soul cries out in anticipation of the impending loss, as she steels herself.

Greedily Murdoc reaches out to take up the once-silver cord, absolutely cocksure, assured of his goal smiling brightly on him at last-

as Becky reaches with the knife-

a single fast swipe downwards-

cutting the cord neatly in two.

MacGyver gasps, hands on his chest, a look of shock on his face as he registers the absence. Bereft of their lifelong connection, he kneels down beside her. Possessed of the absolute stillness that comes on him, when he's awaiting orders.

The assassin gapes. Also still, but not so much so as her uncle; his rage lies too near the surface. "What have you done?"

"My mother was right. You really are pretty unimaginative, Murdoc. You and your sister both."

"Explanations. Now."

"Connections like the silver cord go both ways. The more of yourself that started trickling into him, the more like you he got, the easier it was to sever the bond. I guess I oughta thank you, in a way. Don't think I'd ever have the nerve to do that otherwise, I figured we needed each other too much."

"What do you mean?"

"Takes a lot of hate to cut a connection that's lasted twenty years. A lot of rage, a lot of anger, which I hope I'll never have. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you Murdoc- or should I call you Winifred? All that rage and anger you still hold for your father."

He visibly flinches.

"So thanks for this," Becky says, flourishing the knife. "Don't be so sloppy with your tools next time. Unc doesn't approve of that, you know."

Murdoc howls with rage, goes for an entirely predicable plunge for the darkly shimmering blade.

As he advances Becky spies her advantage. Hanging around his neck on a chain is a piece of golden agate, a small pretty thing. His sister's signature all over it.

She sees the pattern now. A proposition made, blindsiding MacGyver. A distraction rendering him wide open and vulnerable to her brother's assault. Working hand in glove, as she suspected.

A reckoning with Ashton later. Now's the time for action.

Becky ducks in under his grasp, neatly slices the chain in two. The agate drops into her hand-

his sister's programme; in milliseconds ruthlessly picked apart-

finding the key, giving her a means to reach inside the assassin-

to the very source of his dreamweaving power, a vast reservoir-

activating the programme, draining every last drop and absorbing it all herself-

sealing off his access to Parabola for good (only dull, ordinary fantasies of death and destruction for him from now on, if he gets to dream at all)-

he barely has time to cry out Mac's name-

before vanishing mid-blow.

The source of the Alteration gone, Parabola settles back to its usual abnormality.

Becky snorts. "Good riddance."

"...So that's it, Beck?" MacGyver asks, quietly. "Is it over?"

"Yep," she says, stowing the subtle knife out of sight in a belt pouch (along with her mother's dreamline compass). "He can't hurt us anymore. No more changing our minds for us without permission. No more nightmares."

"He's not dead, is he?"

"Nope. Never was my intention. You know me better than that. My guess is right about now he's waking up to find his sister's pumping him full of Somnocil. He'll never return to Parabola, I've taken care of that."

"Why didn't you before?"

"Well, he's not stupid, Unc. He cut me off from that memory first thing- but thanks to his sister's programme I've got it all back now. And a few other things."

Ashton knows her stuff in this regard, at least; the ability's flowing through her with smooth surety. Techniques, discoveries, raw power…oh, she'll have a lot to play with now. Enough to keep her and the dream team busy for a long time.

"That oughta worry me," Mac says. "Murdoc likes leaving booby traps, you know that."

"I'll be careful."

"Maybe I should- but no," Mac says, a little rueful. "You're an independent agent who's entitled to finish cases as seems appropriate, aren't you? Pete always insisted on that. I guess it's about time I admit to myself that's what you are, now. My brave princess, all grown up with a talent uniquely her own. And I couldn't be more proud."

"Aw. Thanks."

"Sure you're okay, though? I mean, losing this connection that matters so much to you, that your mother put in place and everything-"

"An awful lot of concern for something you don't even believe in, huh?"

"Oh, don't give me that again," Mac groans. "The stuff I've been doing today- Nikki had me riding _tea cups_ , for crying out loud. I figure she's gonna be blackmailing me over the photos for years."

"Go and propose to her already, when you wake up," Becky suggests. "Spouses can't inform on each other, right?"

He's stunned, as if the idea simply hadn't occurred to him. "…I'll think about it, okay?"

"Fair enough." She draws a long breath, looks at him. All his familiarity, and inscrutability, and brown eyes deep with concern. The sweetness and gentleness under the courageous, determined, and resourceful exterior. Everything she loves about him, and always will.

"Tell you the truth, Unc?"

A ghost of a smile. "Why stop now?"

"The bond was our source of strength, but it also made us vulnerable. Had to be sacrificed, to keep Murdoc from possessing it- and you, in the bargain. I'm not okay with losing it, but for now I'll cope."

He looks relieved, and maybe a touch disappointed. "Guess I'll have to cope too, then. But we'll still have each other, right?"

She smiles, reaches to give him a hug. So good to be holding him at last, even in a dream. "Of course, Unc. You're not getting rid of me that easily. I'm in it for the long haul, same as you."

"Glad to hear it." Mac stares out at the churning, chaotic dreamstuff, the steady glow of her power the only source of illumination, and shivers. "This place gives me the creeps. Will it be tough getting outta here?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. As easy as snapping our fingers. Which reminds me. Where were you when Murdoc dragged you here, anyway?"

He blushes. "Not saying. We're on camera, remember?"

"C'mon, Unc, I gotta know if I'm sending you back. How else are you getting out of Parabola?"

"…a honeymoon suite at this Disneyland motel or something," he blurts out, all in a rush.

She's still laughing as he snaps his fingers and disappears.

Which strikes her as a good omen for the future.


	35. If we shadows have offended

Waking up's the easy part. There's a plethora of guides, to call her back- one for Nikki, and Jack, and Penny and Pete…all the protections that she'd left to save them, now aiding her. What goes around comes around.

None for her uncle, of course (oh, how the absence aches), and she can feel her fingers itching to get to a set of knitting needles. What's undone can always be done again, after all.

Come to think of it, she can feel again!

"Mission accomplished, sir," Becky says as the helmet's lifted off, opening her eyes and propping herself up against the pillows.

Pete nods at her, in quiet acknowledgement. "Well done."

She's had more effusive praise for singing nicely in choir, or knitting lumpy scarves; but those two words mean more to her than anything she's ever heard. This is who she is now; an agent in her own right, adept and accomplished.

"I hope you don't get into too much trouble with the board. But maybe it'll cheer them up to hear that somebody in Phoenix has all Murdoc's power, instead of the other way round."

"That would depend on whether you're planning to defect," Pete says, soberly. She looks at him in surprise; he leans back and chuckles.

"Spy joke…never mind. But yes, as long as you're staying at Phoenix I'm sure they'll be more than pleased with their new asset. The dream team's going to be a lasting institution around here, if I don't miss my guess, with you front and centre. Not bad for somebody not even out of college yet."

"Speaking of which- I probably ought to major in Psychology, then. Follow in Mom's footsteps, even though I never expected to be making a career choice quite so soon. Or in this weird a fashion."

"Wouldn't be a bad idea. I suppose I can convince the board to fix you up with a full scholarship for the next few years, until you get your doctorate."

"Tell them they'll get a sound return on their investment." With a secondary focus in anthropology, if she's feeling ambitious enough. And why not? After everything she's been through in Parabola, handling the waking world's a piece of cake. (Except for the transportation thing- snapping one's fingers to get from here to there sure beats getting motion-sick.)

Dr. Rebecca Grahme, dreamweaver extraordinaire and agent of the Phoenix Foundation. She rather likes the sound of it.

"We'll work out a schedule around your studies," Pete says, rising from the chair. "But from this moment on consider yourself an official agent, answerable only to me and Dr. Morgan, with the same security clearance as MacGyver and Nikki."

"Seriously, Pete?" To be treated as an equal, recognized for her own contributions, instead of merely an adjunct to her uncle's reputation-

"Seriously. You've been a welcome presence and valuable assistant to the Foundation over the years-"

"Even if only fetching and carrying for others, or helping you and Helen with the paperwork-"

"And your past diligence and discretion have more than proven your worth to us. Based on your performance during your first mission, Becky, I see no reason not to recruit you on the spot."

There's a fierce glow of pride in his eyes, satisfaction in a job well done. It warms her heart. "Thank you, sir. I humbly accept."

"Good." He straightens up, gives her a mock-severe glance. "Now, young lady, as your Director my first order is you take it easy for a while. Relax with your uncle, go to the beach, have some fun. Spring semester at UCLA begins in a couple weeks, doesn't it?"

"Oh god, classes. I totally forgot. Yeah, it'll be nice to get back to a bit of normalcy-"

"Becky!"

For a moment, the opening door had her hoping for her uncle; but it's just Jack and Penny, both looking cheerful and effusive. Maybe a little too cheerful. Those two are gonna be pretty terrifying as a pair.

(For a brief second she has the fear any kids they have would be just the same. Then again, they might wind up being the complete opposite of their parents- sensible and responsible. Or more likely something in between.)

Jack rushes over to give her a hug, almost barrelling over Pete in his enthusiasm. "You did it, kiddo! You got Murdoc on the run."

"Sure. Until he shows up again to torment Uncle Mac the usual way."

"Well, that's a relief," Penny says. "All this dreaming stuff was really wearing me out."

Becky frowns. "You didn't have any nightmares you forgot to tell me about, did you?"

"No, thank goodness. But let me tell you, spending all that time in that imaginary cockpit playing at pilot and stewardess, missing out on my performances-"

"Hey, you weren't complaining earlier when I kissed you and we-" Jack and Penny begin to argue, though in good-natured fashion.

MacGyver and Nikki appear in the doorway, looking both vastly relieved she's awake and slightly anxious at the same time. They're holding hands, a faint shimmer around their right wrists, the silver cord between them still intact.

Something metallic on their left ring fingers catches the light, circles of copper electrical wire-

She bursts out laughing. "Oh, Unc- improvised engagement rings. Perfect!"

Mac looks down and flushes. Nikki shakes her head ruefully. "Told you she'd be the first to notice," she tells him.

"Thought nobody would catch on yet. I really hoped we'd have at least a _little_ time to ourselves before making it official."

Jack throws his head back and howls with glee. Penny clasps her hands, jumping up and down. "Oh, how wonderful! Just like the ending of my favorite romantic movies. I can't wait to be a bridesmaid. Can I plan the bachelorette party? Please?"

Mac blanches. "Now hold on, Penny. We haven't even set a date yet-"

Morgan, Beatty and Chandrashekar file in behind them, along with a boisterous crowd of project scientists and technicians. The room fills with people and chatter, everyone congratulating her on a successful first mission and Mac and Nikki on their engagement.

In the midst of the hustle and bustle Becky catches Mac's eye and even though the link is gone no words need to be said between them. The feeling's entirely mutual:

 _You did it. So proud of you. I love you._

 _Right back atcha, Unc. I love you too._

* * *

Home sweet home, sweet home.

So good to wake up from a good long sleep, dreaming without anyone's conscious meddling or unplanned explorations.

Only three days under and little less than 30 miles between the apartment in West L.A. and the Phoenix R&D facilities in Long Beach. Feels more like she spent three years on the other side of the moon.

Opening the bedroom window, the chirping of birds returning from their winter sojourn, the muted roar of traffic, distant murmur of people in the city park two blocks away. Normal, ordinary sounds.

Hot shower, jeans and unbuttoned flannel shirt over a t-shirt, hair in ponytail. Clean glasses.

Comforting routines, yet it all reminds Becky of when she came back from a summer homestay in Europe, not long before the Serenity Incident.

Everything familiar yet utterly strange at the same time.

* * *

The phone rings as she's preparing breakfast.

"Beck, can you get that?" Mac calls from the first-floor bedroom that serves as office and home laboratory. "Got my hands full here."

"Sure, Unc." With a sigh she picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Greetings, Miss Grahme." The same smooth British accent. Ashton Cooke.

(A flash of memory, Ashton's dismissive shrug in a forest clearing. Another one, briefest glimpse of an alternate reality- the two of them, fellow agents and friends? Not very likely, now.)

"How's Winifred doing?" A fair imitation of her uncle's flippant tone seems appropriate.

"As well as can be expected, considering his system's full of Somnocil. Needless to say, he wasn't happy to discover he no longer has access to Parabola. I'm unable to sense even the tiniest iota of dreamweaving talent in him; I suppose I have you to thank for neutralizing my brother."

"You're welcome. No doubt his employers at HIT aren't too pleased either."

"Perhaps not. Still, his professional life is no longer my concern."

"You know, blindsiding my uncle the way you did with that offer was a real lousy move. Did Murdoc tell you how vulnerable that would make him to the Alteration?"

"I assure you I was quite sincere when I spoke to MacGyver." Neatly sidestepping the question of her complicity. Of course. "The power you possess is immeasurably dangerous. It would be a great pity if it ever fell into the wrong hands. We can still meet privately, transfer your power over to me any time if you feel it's too much for your tender years. No one need ever know."

The same patronizing tone her brother used, when he kidnapped her. How annoying.

"Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll pass. I know what I'm doing, now. And there's my mother's work to continue."

"Ah, yes. Your mother. Of course." A hint of bitter disappointment in the measured voice. "Perhaps we'll meet again one day, in Parabola."

"You know, I'll be waiting."

"You're going to be an interesting adversary, Miss Grahme. I'll look forward to it."

Becky hangs up the phone, thoughtful. MacGyver and Murdoc, herself and Ashton.

Some things really do run in the family. Like acquiring enemies.

* * *

"...So you heat milk in a saucepan over medium heat until just before boiling, add brown sugar and stir until it dissolves, then stir in the dark chocolate until melted. Remove the saucepan from heat, like so," moving the pot to another section of the cooktop, "stir in heavy whipping cream and cinnamon, and _voilà,_ " Mac says, pouring some into a mug and handing it to Becky with a flourish. "Presenting the famous MacGyver Deliciously Decadent Dark Hot Chocolate."

"That simple, huh? And brown sugar's the secret ingredient."

"Gives it additional depth, according to Mom. And I almost forgot-" He picks up a mixing bowl and spoon. "A dab of whipped cream on top to make it extra-special, just for you."

"Oh Unc, you spoil me so." Becky grins up at him. "Mmm. Rich and creamy, and not too sweet. Just the way I like it. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Only the best for my princess."

"You can't believe how much I've had a taste for this since that visit to Mission City. Or one of the variations in Parabola, anyway."

Mac sets his own mug down on the counter and looks away, his expression troubled.

"Hey, what's wrong? Everything okay?"

"It's nothing, Beck. Really."

"C'mon, Unc. Tell me." She frowns. "You're not having any more nightmares, are you?"

He sighs. "No, nothing like that. Just get to thinking about what I saw on the EVAC, when you were under."

"Like what?"

"Those parallel versions or whatever where I married young, stayed in Minnesota. Scary to think that could've easily been me, running the coffee shop, never getting the chance to travel n' stuff."

Shadow of regret in his eyes, all the roads not taken that haunt him even now. Doesn't take a silver cord to know what's on his mind; best to keep him grounded, focused on the here and now, as she's done for the past five years.

"But they aren't _you_ ," Becky says, almost gently. "Look at this way- if you hadn't been there all the times when people needed you the most, the world would be a far worse place."

"You really think so?"

"Without question. Hey- you know Harry came to see me, after Murdoc left me all tied up?"

"What...? Aw c'mon Becky, that's nuts."

"I know he's dead, but..well, it's Parabola. Anything's possible." She shrugs. "Thing is, he reminded me it's no use worrying about stuff- past, present or future- until it happens. And after that, it's just a matter of picking up the pieces and making the most of what's around us."

Mac chuckles, shakes his head. "Harry always did have good advice. And so do you, you know that? Thanks."

"You're welcome. And thanks for- well, everything, I guess. Serving as my anchor. Keeping me sane while I was under. Just being here for me."

"Anytime, sweetheart. Now whaddya say we finish our hot chocolate before it gets cold, huh?"

Maybe their silver cord will never be repaired. But that's okay for now. Plenty of other ways they're connected, after all- love and loss and shared experiences. They'll always have each other's backs, no matter what. A fiercely loyal family.

She'll be just fine on her own. Uncle Mac will be too, having someone else sharing his bed from now on who'll calm his nightmares when all the memories and what-ifs get to be too much.

Still, wouldn't hurt to tease out the beginnings of a new cord in Parabolan space and hold it in reserve, just in case either of them might need a lifeline someday...

* * *

Late Saturday night. The aftermath of a party full of well-wishers, remnants of food everywhere, empty cups, dirty paper plates. Mac and Nikki asleep on the couch in one hilarious tangle, slightly goofy smiles still on their faces.

Becky and Jack recline in lounge chairs on the balcony, staring at the bright cityscape laid out before them. The sky clear, the stars twinkling overhead, a warm spring breeze coming in off the Pacific. Perfect night for sweet dreams.

Jack pops the cap off a brown bottle, offers it to Becky. "You know, I figure you're responsible enough to try a beer now. If you'd like one."

She cheerfully waves it away. "Thanks, but no. Think what it'd be like if I fell asleep intoxicated."

"Oh," he says, palming his forehead, "...right. Good point."

"Besides, I'm still underage."

"Not in any of the ways that matter. Mac's never going to really get it, with as responsible a mom as he had, but people don't all age at the same rate. Some of us have to grow up faster."

She nods. "Guess that was just as well, in my case. Though it was hard to realise, you know? With my uncle trying so hard to let me stay a child, have the life he thought I should have had."

"I'm just glad you came to your senses in time. Or we'd probably all be bowing down to Murdoc, Emperor of Everything. Or Empress Ashton, for that matter."

Becky giggles. "I don't know that either of them could've done _that_ much with my power. Maybe control a small town, or something."

"I wouldn't like taking the chance," Jack says solemnly. "A hustler's got to trust his instincts- and mine say you've got your work cut out for you, with her on the loose in Parabola and that nutjob still out to torment us in the real world."

"At least it's not _both_ of them picking apart our dreams," she reminds him. "Murdoc won't ever have control of Unc's mind, I'll take that as a win. Besides, I'm wise to his sister's tricks now. I'll manage." And it surprises her to hear, the way she says it: no equivocation, no self-doubt. The same certainty her uncle brings to his improvisations, and for just the same reason.

He nods in satisfaction. "No doubt you will, kiddo."

"But what about you, Jack? How will you manage, since..." She can't bring herself to say it.

"Since Murdoc's replaced my love of flying with total fear and panic?" He says it cheerfully enough, but the pain and loss still linger in his eyes. "Funny you should say that. Remember Sam Greer, that guy who knows my mom Francine? Well, knew, anyway- see, he had a heart attack and died last week. Turns out there were no kids so he went and left the Wingman Bar to me in his will. Doesn't sound so bad a life, now I think about it."

"Jack Dalton, bartender," Becky muses. "Yeah, I can see it. Never thought the day would come when you'd settle down and get a legit job with actual income, though."

"You and me both. But since Dalton Air's now permanently kaput and Penny and I are getting more serious, guess it's time I finally did. And speaking of which-" He lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I happened to notice Mac and Nikki pretty pleased with themselves at being engaged tonight, even if they tried their level best not to show it. You been playing matchmaker while doing that dreamweaving stuff, or what?"

Becky grins. "Wish I could claim the credit, but that just happened naturally. And I'm glad. I like Nikki a lot. She'll make a terrific aunt, and they're really good together."

"And my old kemosabe won't be alone any more- well, not that he ever was with you in his life, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know." Becky smiles, fondly. And a bit sadly as well, remembering all that had happened over the past five years since hearing news of the fateful car crash, changing her life forever. From a shy, timid teenager to a young woman full of vim and fire, a life far richer and more exciting than she ever dreamed of as a kid, playing at Princess and Knight with her beloved hero uncle, in a distant imaginary realm.

(Which still exists in Parabola, awaiting her return someday.)

But enough of dwelling on the past. Time to focus on the future. She can taste the patterns already:

A long happy marriage, Mac and Nikki raising their two children together. After Pete retires for good- though not for many years yet- Nikki takes over as Director of Operations at the Foundation while Mac gives up field work to coach youth hockey teams and work with the Phoenix STEM Outreach Program, teaching science (with the coolest demonstrations ever) at the Challengers Club and nearby schools. Plenty of arguments headed their way, though tempered with equally passionate make-up sessions.

Jack in the Wingman Bar, blithely serving drinks and spinning (semi-plausible) yarns of his adventures in the wild blue yonder, though not without a wistful gleam in his eye from time to time. Penny with a thriving career, female lead on a TV series about a comic book superhero. A daughter of their own, with dark hair and impish twinkle in her brown eyes. As cheerfully audacious as her parents, though with a strong pragmatic streak.

And Becky herself? Graduate studies in psychology with a focus dream research, once she completes her regular classes at UCLA. Officially joining the Phoenix dream team after receiving her Ph.D. Further explorations in Parabola, traveling the byways and keeping them safe as the Brave Princess, Dreamweaver Adept. Occasional missions for Pete, rescuing scientists and VIPs trapped within their own dreams and nightmares. Following and preserving her mother's legacy.

Maybe even another boyfriend one day. An introvert like herself perhaps, a kind and gentle archaeologist with a knack for languages. (And why not? Third time's the charm, after all.)

Ashton and Murdoc pop up ever so often with their traps and tricks but Becky's not worried. Between her dreamweaving and Mac's genius at improvising they're more than capable of dealing with any challenges the treacherous siblings throw their way.

An amazing future ahead. Laughter, friendship and plenty of adventures for everyone.

And love- always the love.

Becky Grahme smiles. Touches the tips of both fingers to her lips. Blows a kiss to all the universe before her, as infinite as the mutable sea of creation that is Parabola.

* * *

 _Authors' Final Notes:_

 _And that's it for this story, though not for the AU. I hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as we have writing it. Feedback is always welcome._

 _Of course none of this would've come to pass if not for a certain fictional hero and the incredibly talented actor who portrayed him so brilliantly. The series' views on nonviolence and gun control, the hero's compassion and sense of decency, his creative solutions to problems, his willingness to do the right thing and stand up for others even in the face of overwhelming odds- these are values I still admire and try to emulate even today._

 _So thanks first and foremost to Lee David Zlotoff and Richard Dean Anderson, for introducing me to the original Angus MacGyver so very long ago and whom I still love even now._

 _Story inspiration comes from far and wide- psychology pioneer Carl Jung, mythologist Joseph Campbell, authors like Frank Herbert, Robert Holdstock, Charles de Lint, Elizabeth Hand, Robert Silverberg, Janny Wurts and a whole library's worth of other fabulous tales of imaginary realms and the tenuous line between dreams and reality._

 _Specific inspirations of note: Kevin J. Anderson's Clockwork Lives for the dreamline compass, Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials for the subtle knife, and Robert Holdstock's Mythago Wood for the greenjacks._

 _Above all I must thank my co-author deepandlovelydark, whose fabulous crossover AU with Fallen London, Ecstasy in Cosmogone, set the whole collaborative ball rolling between us almost a year ago this week, more or less. (Go and read it on AO3, dear readers, I urge you.) I really appreciate your allowing me to play off your AU, and have some fun with it. (I might even get back to writing about the adventures of the Innocent Spy and Sensible Bookworm someday, who knows?)_

 _Without such fantastic inspiration, encouragement and insights on this and other stories in my modest AU (and our shared spinoff, Second Chances), I seriously don't think I would ever have had the courage to even begin writing this one. So all my gratitude and blessings go to you, dear writing friend. It's been an incredible experience. May we share many more collaborations in the future._

 _-Tanista_


End file.
